The Grand Masquerade

A gathering of vampires in Las Vegas.


The fluctuating bass of the triphop that resonates from speakers inset into the walls can be heard like a low growl from outside the warehouse. Bustling patrons of the party filter in and out, a few lounging in front and smoking cigarettes. Most of these have the scars of addictive gnashees bared on their throats as status symbols, garbed in outlandish dress attire expected of a masquerade party. Cars are parked up and down the street, and occasionally one of the warehouse's shifting lights manages to burn its way through the door, casting prismatic hues over the entrance as a guest uses the entrance.

A figure with long, vividly red hair enters through the sliding doors, departing from his escort to present himself to the guards first. He is costumed in dark blue velvet, a long jacket that reaches to his knees with a white silk rose pinned to the left breast pocket. A black half-mask covers his upper face, leaving bare a pair of strikingly green eyes. Beneath, a black dress shirt and jeans complete the semi-formal attire. A pat-down reveals nothing from the man, but he shrugs his shoulders and pulls his mask off. The faint scraping of tape being removed can be heard from the inside of the mask, and he passes the small knife that had been attached to the inside of the concealing black velvet over to the guards.

A faint smirk passes his lips as he ties the mask back into place, and he steps in, turning with an arm extended in old-fashioned etiquette. His eyes shift back in their regard to the sliding-door entrance, waiting for the next arrival to pass the protective aegis of the bouncers at the front of the gala.

Remaining close to Faelan, looping her arm through his as it's offered, a slender figure enters the gathering at a sedate stroll, attired in sleek black sateen that contrasts starkly with the alabaster of her skin. She hasn't attended to the dress code -precisely-, to say the least. Lacking a mask, her features are shrouded from view instead by the sweep of a black veil, pinned in place upon tresses of vibrant ruby hue by a small fascinator. Only the curve of a feminine jaw, a flash of cheekbone, can occasionally be discerned when she turns and the light touches just so.

The guards flanking the door regard the redhead with interest, fleetingly. Or so one might assume from their subtle changes in posture, their faces being obscured. Though they don't bar her way. What caught their attention, then? Odd.

The female doesn't seem to notice the lingering gaze of the bouncers. Behind the gauzy shade of her veil, her own focus is flitting here and there with obvious interest and haphazard direction. Women in cages? Bottles of blood! Oh my. And, of course, the inevitable presence of -many- vampires. Despite her graceful presence and apparent nonchalance, Kathryn's hand comes to rest - and fingers squeeze, just a fraction - upon the forearm of her companion.

It was for a time that, while the assortment of vampires below filtered in and mingled, exchanging pleasantries when the music accomodated such a thing, one stood apart. From the loft he watched, above the intrusiveness of the light-show all around, dark-chocolate eyes seeming to wander from person to person, scrutinizing every single mask available, and the personalities associated with them. Seemingly satisfied for the moment, he pulls backward and into the thick shadows. Gone.

Seconds later, a figure descends the winding wrought-iron staircase in the back of the room, slowly and with an easy grace, the languid movements of a man that has nothing but time in the world. His garb for the evening is anachronistic at best, purposefully so, a flowing white poet's shirt with flared out sleeves and a black dress-jacket covering it that wouldn't be out of place in a century considered much more 'victorian' than this one. Rounding out the attire can be seen a pair of black velvet breeches that leave little to the imagination, each sliced up the side and then carefully laced back together, and a knee-high pair of boots that seem less functional and more stylish. The mask worn by this one is.. not elegant. It is ugly. Hideous. The visage of an oriental-style demon that's been carefully crafted and then hand-painted in a mixture of black and gold.

A single nail idly traces the railing of the staircase as he continues the downward spiral, eventually coming to a stop on the level of the electro-industrial masquerade that's thriving all around. Pressing into the crowd, he is immediately stopped by a female vampire that leans in to whisper something. It, of course, cannot be heard, but whatever is said brings the corners of his full lips up and into a wicked grin, showing off the presence of his sharp fangs. In return, he counter-leans to whisper something back, nimble hand thoughtlessly tracing a path down the side of her frame before he breaks off to continue his push through the crowd, heading in the direction of a table.

Gwen Rosemont is known to just about every vampire in Las Vegas. If they don't know her now, they have heard her name whispered here and there. Morning Star, some say. The rest are rumors of the facts of her position in the city and the legend of her voice. She sings up town, some whisper. She's been here forever, others say. As the woman steps to the Guards, it is clear that just about nothing concrete is known of the woman Mr. See calls his personal confidant.
Her figure alone would be as distinctive as facial features. Gwen was made by a very kind hand, or at least she appears so. The mask she wears for the evening, however, is a direct contrast. It is void of features at all, a pale porcelain mask lacking everything but a pair of pouting red lips. The lovely spill of chestnut hair over her bare shoulders indicates any softness at all as her eyes are hollow pits of sheer darkness. Her dress is a sheath of black silk made of hug her curves and lined in red.

None accost the red-haired vampire or his black-clad escort as they move across the floor towards one of the bottle-laden tables, passing underneath the erotic cage dancers clad in burning multi-colored hues painted on by the spinning lights of the warehouse. A route through the vampiric crowd forms before them in subtle steps, and while glances follow them, none immediately move into their path. Faelan is known to a few, but any eyes that are drawn to him immediately avert themselves into the direction of the porcelain-masked Morning Star that makes her entrance. The vampiric crowd shifts subtly, groups placing their attentiveness towards the entrance of the new arrivals in hushed expectation. This ignorance suits Faelan well enough as he comes to a halt near a table, his eyes drifting briefly down to the hand on his forearm during the subtle betrayal of nerves that its pressure indicates.

"Catches your breath, doesn't it?" he murmurs quietly, though vampiric ears can pick it up beneath the layer of bass that saturates the confines of the building. One of his hands reaches out to clasp a vessel containing blood: 'Sunrise and Sweetness', the label declares, and he picks it up to examine the contents through the dark glass with a tilt of the bottle. His attention shifts towards Gwen for a moment, lagging behind the vampiric crowd, before turning to black-clad Kathryn. A smirk briefly curved his lips.

The redhead's gaze continues to wander the crowd, her own, less keen senses somewhat numbed by the volume of music, the sheer numbers of cold bodies inhabiting the warehouse… the presence of those particular choices of beverage. But she remains steadily by Faelan's side. More than likely, he can feel a quickening of her pulse, with her slender wrist lain against his forearm that way. At first, Kathryn seems to regard some individuals, albeit from a safe distance and in her companion's reassuring presence. But in the end, abruptly, she lowers her vivid green eyes to the floor before her stiletto'd feet. And keeps them there, with stubborn determination. Clever girl. And fortunate timing, on the part of the chestnut haired woman at the doors. Yes, she saw her, before averting her gaze from -everyone-. A simple nod is given, by way of response to Faelan's softly-uttered words; even the ghost of a smile to accompany.

"You like that one, do you?", Adrian asks, approaching the same table that Faelan and Kathryn are at, just another stranger in a crowd of people who are no-doubt mostly strangers and accquaintances. Even when he's speaking, both corners of his lips twitch upwards as if pleading to wear a grin, "That's a special vintage..", he promises, biting down on his lower lip ever-so-briefly with just his fang, before adding, "..It comes from women with an optimistic disposition, flooded with ecstacy and then drained on a high roof-top while they ponder the brilliance and intensity of that terrible ball of fire in the sky. In the end, it is infused with the lightest splash of honey..". Somehow, explaining the contents of the concoction seems to bring about a wicked self-confidence in the demon-masked man. He seems almost.. smug about it.

A brief moment has his attention catching upon the arrival of the Morning Star, and it does linger there far longer than it should, either from the sight of her and what she is clad in, or perhaps his expectance of her arrival. Whichever it is, her presence certainly does profoundly please him, that expression writ clearly across the only part of his face that is exposed - those lips.

Adrian picks up another bottle, this one elegantly labeled with one single word, 'Terror'. He examines it for a moment, casually, before digging his nail into the cork and popping it loose. To Faelan, he adds, "It is also rather expensive. I cannot bottle it myself due to the sensitive nature of the.. environment that it is created. My work is always more expensive when I must rely on the clumsiness of humans. Graceful, trust-worthy ones are so much harder to find, and more expensive to employ..". His own bottle is lifted, his nostrils flaring up as the scent mingles into his senses, but he doesn't quite drink. Rather, those dark eyes fall to the man's side, landing upon his companion and sticking there for a long, decisive moment.

The woman in the pale mask pauses, noting the table of exotic delights. She does not embibe just yet… a lady must keep her wits about her, after all, especially in strange surroundings. Faelan is spotted. It is hard not to…. a matches set of redheads, after all. The woman moves towards the man with a steady, easy step meant to part seas and crowds. Hers is the walk meant for darkened rooms and fevered whispers, a rolling of hips scandalous and fluid on legs long and sublime. The light licks along her body, swirling like oiled leather over the silk of her dress. She sees Faelan, though there is no smile behind the mask of bone white. No familiar grin of flashing fang or mischievous flicker in her shifting eyes. Long fingers rise to press a red fingernail to her heart, then point towards Faelan's date. Then rise toward the painted red of her lips. Shhhh.
She turns her head to the stranger and host as he approaches to tell of his vintages, her hands winding behind her back to press against her tailbone. Fishnet stockings end at mid-thigh, giving a bit of skin a little peek of freedom in the triangle of silk formed from the slit of silk between hip and knee. She leans forward slightly as he uncorks his bottle, her interest profound.

A blink of his pale-green eyes, and the velvet-clad man turns towards the approaching explanation incarnate, wearing an oni mask. One brow rises beneath the mask and he listens quietly, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. "Honey, you say?" he inquires at the end, following the creature's gaze towards his escort. "How.. exotic. I imagine your taste-testers have a very high fee, to be so discerning as to involve such flavorings." He inclines his head slightly, his attention returning to the table. His hand sets the bottle back onto it, picking up another, larger one and shifting his attention to it. "So you do all of this, hm?"

Faelan's red hair has gone uncut this evening, and its long length shifts as he notes the approach of the chestnut Lieutenant. He shifts his free palm to press lightly against his waist and he cuts a bow, still leaving his arm in support of his companion's wrist as he does so. His motion is practiced and polished for another era but he manages it with dignity, comporting himself back to full height easily. One of his hands brushes a vivid auburn strand from his face and away from his black half-mask, the smirk on his lips lingering in amusement as he nods to the woman in greeting. "Good evening, Miss Rosemont," he offers softly, his eyes shifting back to the host.

To her credit, the young woman by Faelan's side doesn't flinch, as the richly decadent and macabre contents of the bottle are so vividly described. No doubt there's a strong desire to shudder, particularly as he uses the word 'drained' so candidly. But she masters it. Keeping her drawn breaths light and shallow, careful not to draw attention with a sigh, or gasp.. or scream.. Kathryn merely remains perfectly still, wishing helplessly for a distraction, before that voice entices her further to raise her eyes.

Salvation comes, as it so often does, in the form of beauty, wrapped in black. Or so the young lady can presume, stealing a sidelong glance only at the sinuous legs that halt nearby. Nice shoes. Nicer stockings. She focuses on these details, rather than look up. This is not a discussion she wishes to invite herself into.

As the strange stranger continues in his self-satisfied monologue, though, the mind can't help but allow choice snippets to wander in. Sensitive nature. Clumsy humans. Graceful ones. Through all of this, she resists the urge to glance up. But the slow, savoring inhale… and the weight of eyes upon her an instant later… demands tenfold. Without raising her head, keeping it slightly turned to one side - toward Faelan - Kathryn dares a stolen glimpse, green eyes flitting upward. The mask, unfortunately, does nothing to ease her. It's perfectly ghastly. And the still quality of its wearer… Inwardly, she curses. Does her scent stand out so obviously, in this crowd? Enough to taint the fine body of precious, ambrosial wine. That doesn't bode well. Not well at all. And why hasn't she looked away yet? Look away!

THe woman in the expressionless mask takes a step in towards Kathryn. Faelan's brought a doe to a lion's party. This one doesn't even have any scars. The woman's hair seems to shift, turning a shade or two subtly darker, and her hand rises to trace a fingertip against the woman's shoulder. She looks to Faelan again, just to see what he'll do. Always, it's about what he'll do.
"How do you keep the screams inside?" She asks, her voice finally making its appearance at the party. Her fingertips trace against Kathryn's clavicle and she leans closer still, smelling of dried roses and dusty earth. "How can you keep it alive inside?"

As the Morning Star makes her approach to the table, Adrian's attention is dropped back upon her once again. Clearly, for even one so fresh to the City of Sin as he is, her reputation is known. Those lips, always so expressive, seem quite amused, and that stretches up the length of his fair-skinned face as he raises a hand to lift his mask away, allowing it to rest on the top of his head, "I know -you-. Or, I've heard.. the stories, at least. You're rather a big deal in this forsaken desert oasis of sin..", he remarks with a silken voice, canting his head to the side for long enough to consider her. Or at least, it might seem as if that is what he is doing, if those around don't notice the way that his dark eyes slide up and down her frame, drinking in the delicious sight before coming to a stop upon her face once more.

When the woman's question dances into the air, Adrian allows a smirk to blossom into presence, remarking with a hint of tease to his voice, "..Well, that is a secret of the trade, I'm afraid. If I revealed that, well then everyone would know, and you would have no reason to see me again, would you? A dreadful thought, that..". He watches as the Morning Star steps closer to Kathryn, and with a smooth action he slides the bottle across the table and to Gwen, veritably purring out, "..You will -love- this one, I can guarantee it. It is quite rare. The blood of an impudent mortal, stowed away into a gathering of predators, and without even the courtesy to introduce herself to the host of that spectacular event. It is -rife- with rudeness, and the hint of fear is absolutely -succulent-..". He would almost be laughing as this is said, if there wasn't a slight hint of deadly seriousness to his tone.

The whole of the time that he's speaking this, those dark eyes are on the pair of women, but more often they linger on Kathryn during his explanation, meaningfully speaking everything that he doesn't out-right say. After a moment, he breaks his attention off to speak to Faelan again, "..I do all of it, yes. Or I delegate to those who I can trust to do for me. I won't keep you in suspense, there are few of those. My name is Adrian, but my company has no monicker. We thrive on reputation alone. And you are..?", he asks, letting that question linger in the air.

Addressed by Adrian, Gwen feels compelled to reveal herself as well. She steps away from Faelan's mortal, though Gwen's eyes slant towards the woman with a knowing glance, as if she is no stranger to this denizen of Las Vegas. That gaze is shifted to Faelan as well, a weight settling there for the space of two heart beats, if she had them to spare. Fortunately for everyone, she gave up life for living a long time ago.
To say Gwen's face is radiant would be an understatement. Light is her trade, and the shadows swirl over the woman's features, accenting the curves of her lips, the hi lights of her brows and the sweep of her hair that cascades to obscure one smokey brown eye. She is smiling now, her full lips cast in the brightest of red like some trollop of a night-club vamp.
"I would hope you would know me, Stranger and host, but you are flattering and kind and a credit to your family. What a curious and compelling hobby you have found," she gestures to the bottled blood on the table with a nod of her head. "I am sure you cannot tell me your secrets, but perhaps I can persuade you to share with me some of your methods. They are just too intriguing not to know…." Her attention shifts back to the pair of ginger-haired people.
"Aren't you going to introduce your date, Faelan? The way she is avoiding looking at everything and everyone must indicate she is someone we *must* know."

Mercifully, the scarlet-haired young woman pulls her gaze away, her attention wavering, at last, in order to be turned upon the masked female drawing so many heads. The graze of the wandering fingertips unsettle her. Her own tighten a little on Faelan's arm. The warmth of her skin only serves to sweeten the scent of her perfume and rouse a soft blush across her cheekbones beneath her veil. But she doesn't recoil from the other woman; merely studying her in fascinated silence for a long moment before recalling where her eyes -ought- to be. She lowers them to the floor again.

But oh… that dark voice has turned vaguely threatening now, hasn't it? That age-old sensation of hairs prickling the back of her neck almost succeeds in elciting a shiver from the redhead. But sheer force of will prevents it. Did a -vampire- just imply there was something amiss with her manners? Oh, hell no. Faelan would see it coming. The slow, deliberate raise of her head. The level seeking of the stranger's gaze. Even the sudden air of - largely feigned - calm. And, inevitably, the melody of her accented voice. It's softly uttered. She knows there's no need to raise it, to be heard. Not in present company.

"Hiding in plain sight, perhaps. Hardly stowed away. And my escort apparently has manners enough not to crowd you." Shifting her emerald eyes - not without effort - back to Gwen as she willingly unmasks herself, Kathryn allows a slow curve to play across her lips in response. Her eyes linger there a long moment. But it's to Faelan that she leaves the introductions.

"This one," the auburn-haired man says as he turns one of the glass bottles in his hands, briefly glancing towards the woman on his arm that the two predators that croon over her with a raised brow. His voice is level and polite, with a vague smirk filling out his lips as he raises his gaze to them. The bottle is placed on the table, and he pops the top off with a thumb. His fingers clasp around its neck loosely, eyes shifting to indicate the alabaster-skinned woman at his side. "Is Kathryn. A rare vintage, the kind of person who would actually appreciate a tour of this mausoleum." His lips turn upwards, fingers curling inwards on the escorting arm proferred to the breathing woman. "As you seem to have noticed already." He glances aside to Kate as her chin raises upwards, and his amusement is contained in the haunted depths of his eyes.

He looks back between the two, watching them momentarily with a growing smirk. "Of course, I brought her along so that the sight of her could entertain the two of you. But you can't touch, I'm afraid. I gave my word, you see." His attention shifts to the host in the oni mask and his lips curve into a smile, one fingertip tracing the top of the dark glass bottle of blood. "I am Faelan, Adrian. Recently of Night Shade Consulting, now a tourist in Las Vegas. Well-met."

"The methods that I used are quite varied, depending upon the creature that I'm using and the subtle inflections of taste that I'm hoping to draw out of the blood. To list them all would take time, but I can reveal to you, Miss Rosemont, that the whole of the process requires.. a sip here, a taste there, and a very.. -controlled- environment of emotion. After all, the secret is in what the senses are experiencing, what emotion is wrought upon the person that is bleeding to fill that bottle. Emotion.. is what I do. And I've been told that I am a masterfully competent composer..". Is he bragging? It's possible, and even likely. His expressions seem to flicker back and forth between confident and cocky, except when his attention is upon Kathryn or Gwen.
Adrian's eyes do seem to linger upon the Morning Star a bit longer than is necessary when her mask is stripped off, his appreciation of the finer aspects of life having a metaphorical field-day with the map of features to be found there. Eventually, he returns to Faelan, tipping his head in the most slight of nods before answering with, "..Well met, indeed. Drink your fill this evening. Tomorrow I charge. You know what they say, Faelan, if you're good at it, never do it for free..". His own amusement at the exchange seems to mirror quite well the amusement that the other man has worn so openly on his face through-out the evening. Perhaps when you've been around long enough, certain matters become comical on the surface.

The man leans forward then, at the introduction of Kathryn, letting his torso relax upon a cleared spot of the table, and he focuses all of his attention on her for a very, very long moment, those same dark eyes practically bleeding lustful intent. His arms are lowered, folded, used to hold up his weight as he speaks to her, "My dear, we're wearing masks. All of us are hiding in plain sight. No. You're something else. You're not hiding in plain sight. You're hiding behind the denial of a still-beating heart. You cause me to weep foul, black tears of pitch for the wasted potential you cling to in remaining among the living. You could be so much more..". His voice is a perfect tone for what he wishes to accomplish. It isn't threatening. It isn't lustful. It isn't hungry. It isn't promising. It's all of them, combined.

Entirely underdressed for this kind of occasion, the large Danish man that enters through the front door carries a rather large sack over his shoulder. The smell of blood that emenates from his location is barely noticed by the younger predators in the crowd, easily overwhelmed by the sanguine banquit set out for those of specialized tastes in the warehouse. Those older and more aged creatures might just pick up the mixed scent of shifter and borrowed blood. Stopping in front of the two human guards, Gabriel looks them in the eye and speaks in a clear tone. His words are lost to any but those right behind him and the two he talks to, drowned out by the beating rythm of the bass. Soon enough, he's handed a mask and passes through and into the large warehouse where some of the city's finest mingle and talk.

Damnit. That's what she gets for raising her elusive gaze. Parting her lips a fraction, as if to offer a stinging retort to the masked host, Kathryn then simply freezes; held rapt by the steady attention of dark eyes. Even her breathing seems to catch, for a second or two. She knows exactly what Adrian's doing, in some small, persistent corner of her mind. The same part that silently screams in protest, sending blood rushing audibly to her own ears. But it's hopelessly distant, for the moment he steals. Senses rendered useless.

Some vague spark of recognition may be noted in the darker depths of her gaze. -Something- he says strikes a nerve, one that would normally retaliate ferociously. And still, all she can do is stare. It's with tremendous effort and the aid of a sudden, much-needed lungful of gasped air, that she speaks. And even then, it's little above a whisper. All Kathryn can do is hope that her meaning within the single word of request is abundantly clear to the one she addresses, fingers suddenly grasping tight at his sleeve. "Faelan…"

Gwen nods in acknowledgement of word given by Faelan. Good enough by her. A man is nothing if he does not have his word, after all. She listens to Adrian's explanation of his methods with a subtle coo, leaning back then to let her fingers dance along the bottles. She selects one, lifting it to cradle like something precious in her palms. Indeed, it is something precious. "This is extrodinary," she murmurs under her breath. With the words, and her delight, the light slips around her, sparkling like fireflies off her satin gown. She glances up at the human and vampire, absently mindful of the events. She can handle herself, after all.

Raising a finger up lightly to touch Adrian's chin with a blurring speed that speaks of someone who is very, very used to using his vampiric capacities for violence, Faelan smiles a dead thing's smile. His finger strokes gently across the masked host's alabaster skin in a motion that would be languid if it were viewed with a stop-motion camera, arriving at the base of his throat before the blink of an eye. "And if you touch her while she is under my protection, that would be very rude. Perhaps your blood would be an exotic vintage to put in a bottle. We could call it.. 'Entitlement'."

For a brief moment, Faelan had moved forward, his arm seeming to simply vanish from underneath Kathryn's. In the space of the breathing woman's adrenaline-fueled heartbeat, he appears next to her, and her hand is touching his forearm once more. Then it disappears, the palm of his hand arriving on the small of his back. "Come," he says quietly. "You've had your fun. Let's see you away," he murmurs to the red-headed woman he escorts, turning to guide her back in the direction of the entrance. He practically carries her with the hand, his speed moving him at a blur that leaves the mortal woman breathless outside the entrance before she can blink twice.

Gabriel works his way through the crowd, his bedraggled appearance and lack of an outfit past jeans and a t-shirt doing little to inhibit him. He recieves more than a few strange stares, the now dripping bag that hangs over his back drawing an unhealthy amount of attention to the Danish man. Still, he seems to have a purpose in mind and after exchanging a few words with a few couples, he's pointed in the direction of those he's here to confront. Approaching Adrian, Gwen, and the now fleeting Faelan and Kathryn, Gabriel lets out a bellow. "Accountability!" The bag that hangs from his back is hefted and tossed forward, landing with a crunch and sliding towards them. The thing stinks of blood and bile, and after a moment it starts to move, a broken and battered hand slipping out of the opening as a young vampire, barely recognizable from the wounds that he bears, starts to crawl out of the sack. Walking forward, Gabriel places a foot on the childe's shoulder and pushes him to the ground. "I want acountability!"

Adrian doesn't flinch as Faelan moves faster than most eyes could handle keeping up with. If anything, when that touch comes, he almost seems to press into it, relishing the feel of flesh against flesh. He's either fearless, calculating, or very dumb. Perhaps all three. He gives no response, at least other than that knowing look in the depths of his dark-chocolate eyes. They speak volumes to make up for the silence of his mouth.

As Faelan turns his back to leave, taking the morsel of a mortal woman with him, the oni-masked man's attention falls back to the Morning Star, still quite amused with the whole of the situation at hand, and he straightens back up, "..That one must be new to vampirism. I never have to touch my victims. -They- are the ones who touch me. But he does say the sweetest things. Entitlement..". There is an actual bloom of mirth on his full lips, one that cannot be quite suppressed.
Adrian stretches, slightly, more out of habit than any actual discomfort, and seems on the edge of opening his mouth once more, no doubt to shower Gwen with another salvo of compliments involving her grace and style, but his concentration is rather shattered by the antics of the new stranger that has apparently come to ruin his gathering. All at once, features contort, and he reaches up to tear the mask from off of his head, the strap on the back popping loose as he does so. One hand goes down to the table, forcefully sliding the whole thing to the side and causing bottles to fall over and roll around. He takes a solid step forward, and then another, and places himself right at Gabriel's front, lifting one foot up and resting it on the fledgling vampire's head. Flatly, he states, "You're very stupid. And very clumsy. Graceless in a place where a lack of grace can be your biggest detriment. Explain why you've sought to taint my fine gathering with the cloying stink of your ignorance..". In a single, fluid press of his leg, he steps forward harder, laying down more pressure in an attempt to simply cave-in the head of the wounded vampire.

"Do not waste your words, leech. You are a dead thing, and as such I will never give a damn about your opinion of myself or my actions. What I do care for…" His foot presses down on the shoulder, easily snapping the thing beneath his weight as he leans forward. "Is accountability. Two of your fledglings have dared to raise arms against me. Let me rephrase that: Two of your fledlings have dared to raise arms and risk the necks of all our kind, in broad fucking view of the public. When a wolf pulls a human into this life, we are held accountable for their actions. Their mistakes are our mistakes. I expect as much of the leeches. We have a problem, Igle. He is not a wolf, thus this is not my problem to fix. So tell me, Igle, how will you fix the problem caused by two of your kind?"

After his human guest has been seen safely off, the redheaded vampire returns. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his velvet overcoat and he stands between the two mortal guards at the entrance, just in time to hear the end of the angry speech that's addressing half of Las Vegas's fanged population. One of his brows rises beneath the black half-mask and his head cants to the side predatory, stepping in slowly. "When two living men get into a scuffle, wolf, do their entire races raise arms and kill each other?" He speaks up, glancing towards one of the guards. His voice is a low murmur over the bass, of "Turn off the music." Faelan does not see if they obey. He walks in more slowly to stand at the side of the host, pausing with a shallow and weary exhalation. "If you truly wished for accountability, you would have calculated your actions to bring the words to the ears of someone that cares. Instead you seek to create a circus. This circus is not a pleasant place to air greivances."

"Do we look like wolves? No? That should be a rather telling sign that the savage expectations forced upon your kind are of little concern to our kind. Accountability, and for that matter, every aspect of our society is of no concern to you. You do have concerns, however, stranger. You should be concerned that you're standing in a warehouse that's filled to brimming with more than half of the vampiric population of Las Vegas. Making demands..", Adrian admits, giving his boot a twist and sinking it deeper into the fledling vampire's skull. His demon-themed mask is tossed to the side, landing on the ground and forgotten, and he doesn't flinch away from the man.

"I'm the host of this gathering. You're going far out of your way to ruin an occasion that I happened to be enjoying. This is your chance to leave with your pride remaining intact, among other things, before you embarass yourself. We can all understand the seriousness of whatever situation may have led you to bring a bloodied kinsman to us. What I cannot understand is simply this - what reason do we have to believe anything that you're saying, and what sort of -monster- would air their grievances at a celebration? You've selected an improper forum, and you may not get the results that you desire.".

"Evidence. Do you think I would just walk in here with no evidence, undefended. Not only am I not scared of you, I am not scared of my death. If you are stupid enough to attack me, though with how you vomit words out as if you know what your talking about, I would not be surprised, you will bring the entire force of the Crazy Eight's down on your heads." Gabriel looks around the room, completely unphased by the words of the vampire that stands in front of him. "It is a fragile peace that we keep with the humans. We are strong, but they have numbers and tenacity. Do not come crying to my kind when the actions of your unaccounted for offspring bring their hunters to your doorsteps in droves. Fire and sun will kill you just as well as any other ant." He looks back to Adrian, and smiles. "Your business is our business, when we are the one's that keep your casinos and clubs security systems in check. And when your kind bring the humans down on your heads, we're the ones they look to next. We will not be fucked by your arrogance, do you understand me?"

"You mean /you/ will not be fucked by our arrogance, is the pressing point you're trying to make." The red-haired vampire calmly makes his way over to stand at the side of Adrian, plucking one of the bottles of blood off the table as he walks. He leaves it corked, exhaling wearily as he looks towards the man. "You presume to risk everything both of us have fought to protect because of your personal matter? This action you've chosen is nothing short of an act threatening war. Rather than attempting to talk among our leaders and reach a peaceable resolution, you come here and beat your chest like this will compel us to kneel and pleasure you?" he gestures towards the fledgleling, calmly smashing the bottle of blood on the edge of the table. The sanguine scent enters the air pungently, broken glass scattering in dark chunks to the floor. He offers the sharp bottle to the host sidehand with a glance towards the fledgeling with the caved-in head. His intent is obvious. Faster punishment.

He gestures towards the room. "If your Crazy Eights came after us, we would be inclined to reveal the extent of your operations to the police and expose you. All of you. I'm sure we have the means to do so. You would risk the destruction of all of your kind so that you can save face? Your commitment to violence /is/ what's going to fuck you."

Adrian's nostrils flare up at the scent of the bottled, expensive blood as it spills everywhere, managing to pull pleasure from that during even such a situation as this. Side-handed, he takes the broken haft of the bottle from Faelan and then drops to a knee, swiftly pulling the improvised weapon across the throat of the fledgling while he grabs a handful of hair with the other hand, jerking hard and severing through anything that would keep the two pieces intact. This doesn't take him but a moment before he's rising back to his feet, "..I think you'd walk in here with no evidence. The fact that you would even walk in here in the first place leads me to believe that you are hot-headed and brash, a flailing dog without a plan, merely chasing down whatever annoys you..".

The man pauses for a moment, looking down at the head with a noticeable distaste, before dropping both it and the broken bottle to the ground. The emotions that mingle across his features are both annoyance and indignance as he remarks, "Your kind work security because our kind could find no other way to keep you out of trouble. Guard dogs, the lot of you, and you and I both know quite well what happens to a guard dog when there is no longer a use for it. Faelan speaks the truth. You walk a bad path in bringing this trouble in here to us, as if we're supposed to be held accountable for the actions of some.. fledgling vampire. Remove yourself from my gathering, before you cross a line and do something that you can't take back..".

"You people sure are good at talking about nothing, its like listening to politicians. Is that one of those gifts you get from being dead but alive, the ability to speak through your anus? It does not matter, I guess. You will find this child's sire, bring him to us for words and punishment, and that will be that. We would prefer to not have to take our recorded admissions to the higher authorities. We would also prefer to avoid a war, but you seem very insistent on bringing one about. It almost makes it seem like you want one, and are trying to provoke us into being the culprits. I am done talking to you." Shrugging, Gabriel steps off of the young vampire and walks away. When Faelan makes the threat, he laughs. "We are a registered and licensed company, our dealings are out in the open. You would threaten me with the information of my hair and eye color. Fucking leeches, always good for a laugh. You are not our masters, you are our partners. Learn to know the difference." Chuckling, he turns and leaves.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License