she'll burn our horizons, make no mistake

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost and Hasibe Ozcelik
What: Any excuse to dress up will do.
Where: Gutters, Mafaton.
When: Shundi night.
Warnings: Vampire related horrors.

It might be considered strange that Gutters has a bar at all. There's a woman with a rather specific kind of drug in her system so as not to taint the taste of her blood, relaxed in the arms of a man who sets her down upon a table in the lounge area as if she really were a silver platter laden with food and drink. Those waiting for her simply indulge as if she were. But truth be told, there are too many variations of vampire to account for for it to be entirely obsolete. Some might go home and enjoy a meat and three veg after devouring the blood of the living.

Deacon is not one of them, but he rarely drinks the blood his business provides, preferring to hunt for himself. He's at the bar, a beer in brown glass bottle being sipped from very intermittently and almost impervious to the shudder of drum and bass music, the milling people, xenian and otherwise.

Tonight, he's opted for all black, his jacket a remarkably shiny black leather and denim of the same colour. Italian leather shoes, although who knows if Italian actually applies, but it's that handcrafted shape and oily, scaly texture that one associates with the idea. The collar and cuffs of his shirt are left loose and unbuttoned, a dusky charcoal colour, and a gold band on a finger embedded with some precious stone of red, for those of us who can't wear silver. He probably could stand to wear less black, but then again, he has certain physical conditions that allow for looking a little, well, corpse like.

His CiD sits upon the bar at his elbow, occasionally spun around with fidgeting fingers, stopped to respond to something, spin again. Though he is watching the door, he is keeping an eye on another presence without actually doing so; listening across the room to the dim talk of conversation.

Comments

[norea]

"Like I need a gun." The bartender brings her the tequila drink she requested, and she watches him leave before she answers the next question. Her responses will be ever so slightly coded, as even here in Gutters, there's no knowing who's listening and who they might take that information back to, but she feels freer now than she has in quite a long time. No more faking human unless she wants to.

"Let's just say when I find out who outed me, they had better hope Mitchell gets to them before I do." Given Mitchell's talent for brutality, that's saying something, but then, she's not talking about enacting violence on anybody. That's for the men in her life to do. "Kind of changes the game plan a little, but we'll make do."

It's hard to tell when she's genuinely not bothered and when she's faking it, but she seems fine.

"But until it's settled," she says, turning to rest her elbow on the bar top, facing Deacon, "you and the rest of Mafaton get to see a lot more of me."

Yes. Lucky them.

[fuckin_thirsty]

"Great."

Deacon doesn't sound sarcastic; he humoured her about poetry once, sort of, so while she may not tally up to his exact species and specifications, she's inhuman enough for it not to matter (and never mind the bangin' dress). Understated would be a better word for it, bringing the neck of the beer bottle up to sip from before he adds, "God knows we could do with prettying this neighbourhood up."

He shifts, then, to face her, an arm folded against the bar, loosely mirroring. "Are we thinking it was someone who sold you out, or did you just get caught?"

[norea]

She shakes her head, just slightly, brow furrowing in a momentary half-frown--no, she doesn't think she just got caught. It's not pure cockiness in regards to her skills (she's good at this, certainly, but even the best get caught sometimes; luck is not about talent), but burning rowan is just too fortuitous a guess for her to believe they simply happened upon it. "Someone planted the idea, I think; whether it was someone who came to Lost Society or not, I don't know. It was an inevitability, really."

Sounding so unbothered, but it's true: these things always end with someone selling someone out. She expects it from people, and it doesn't make her angry. It's just how they are.

"I certainly won't miss the company." Sandor earned her disdain in a way few people ever do.

[fuckin_thirsty]

"Silver lining; I like to think I'm good company."

Deacon doesn't offer to get all up on hunting out the dickweed who sold her out; both Mitchell and Hasibe are more than capable of making blood run off the walls, or so he assumes of the latter whether metaphorically or literally, and it's more or less a self-solving problem.

He glances over a shoulder in a sort of automatic once over of the club to see if anything is particularly amiss. The smell of blood is cloying in the air and the music is all deep bass that makes the floor buzz, and that is the standard sort of evening. "While you're hanging out with the bloodsuckers," he says, and yes, he had thought of this before this moment, even before she texted him for the evening, "I was wondering if you'd help me take care of something."

Another longer pull from his beer goes here.

[norea]

Hasibe doesn't say anything for a second (for an extrovert she is given to periodic silences, though nothing too weighty in this moment), and then tilts her head to the side, the ghost of a shrug in her narrow shoulders. Why not. She wants a night full of distractions; maybe this will be one in a series.

"Since I'm hiding out in your venue, it seems only fair." Admittedly, this will depend on the favor, but she's flexible and sometimes all too easily talked into things she shouldn't do. It's not a great quality to have when you've got a brain that can liquify cities, at least when unencumbered by its current psychic bindings.

"Shoot."