Multiversal

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.

Who: Deacon Frost, Ilde Decima and Ivan.
What: An invitation accepted.
Where: Gutters.
When: Now.

On the surface, time is dictated by the sun, a given constant. Down here, it's a subjective measuring of wound watches and the steady, relentless tick of digital numbers, but it can also be measured by the amount of people flowing through the underground passageways that stem into Gutters.

Otherwise, the lighting doesn't care. The shadows are thick where there isn't that piercing sheen of artificial light staining the concrete walls, iron bars and steel pipes, and that's just the corridor, currently playing host to the nightlife ducking down underground. The space itself is as impervious to the logical progression of time as the people it caters to, permeated with the scent of the underground, water and earth, with cigarette smoke, with copper and salt. Music aches through the floor, a heavy bass, and security isn't particularly overt, but certainly present - that isn't counting the guy at the door handing off the money people give to get in.

This isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking.

But it is Deacon Frost's natural habitat regardless, for all that he doesn't feed here, doesn't dance much, doesn't strike up meaningful conversation a hell of a lot. He's moving out of the backrooms and into the larger space, doing up the sleeves of his shirt with his CiD gripped in one hand, and going about his evening. Eventually, he's going to need some fresh air.