((As per the descrïption above, Angyl didn't actually see Chuck's glance, since his eyes are covered by the sunglasses))

Chuck's night has just taken a nosedive, and he hasn't even been here five minutes.  "Fuck man, lupines?  You're kidding me, right?" he asks as he leans forward and whispers.  Chuck remembers Angyl mentioning the wolves in one of their earlier conversations, just after the shit went down with the Russians.  He was hoping Angyl was just making big talk and it would all blow over.  He just shakes his head, a very dark look on his face.  "Elektra will be around tonight I know that.  She's not the party type but she pays her respects.  She'll want to hear about this, definitely.  Maybe the Prince I dunno."  Chuck doesn't think Angyl is exactly lying about getting his arm torn off by a werewolf, but he's hoping most of the other stuff is gusto and bluff.  He's already figured Angyl has a way of trying to spin things in his favor.  He's hoping -- damn well hoping -- this story of a marauding pack is just a blown-up bit about some rogue lupe.  Fuck, a rogue wolf would be enough of a problem.

((Sorry I missed the shades...))

Angyl is looking as honest and intensely sincere as a one-armed buck toothed man can. "Seriously mate, I saw at least four of them 'n after they separated, I went after the one wif the g'el 'n that's where this (a nod to the shoulder) 'appened."

Elektra will be here? Great... The Prince... Um well, not so great but I should o' expected it. ...But maybe the bloke'll give me a break on that previous mis'ap wif the Russian prick.  

--Last edited by Angyl Osbourne on 2009-11-12 08:55:44 --

"Shit on a fuckin' stick," Chuck curses.  He looks over to Cassie in an anxious sort of look, exactly like a father worrying over bad news that will potentially effect his child.  He shakes his head.  "Stick around, when Elektra shows up she needs to talk with you.  Don't go getting yourself into any more trouble while you're here."  Chuck looks around and doesn't see Mikhail or any of the other Russians.  He's not sure any of them will show up, and for Angyl's sake he hopes they're preoccupied with other matters tonight.  Giving one more nod to Angyl he moves off into the slowly growing crowd of Kindred to say his greetings to others.

Letting his eyes wander through the crowd, Roberto tries to spot if the guy he clocked at the warehouse was present.

The party was interesting but not exactly as his sire would say his cup of tea. Only an idiot would expect him to pick up an instrument and play something half decent.

(Can I roll to spot anything or anyone interesting which would interest Roberto in either conversation or baiting?)

((Sure.  Though define "interesting," since you're in a party filled with vampires in costume...a lot of things could be "interesting"))

(Top of my head, a ventrue lapdog that he can verbally abuse and shame, thorn or any of his boys, toreador hotties to hit on, anyone who might have information on the slum killing, in that order. )

Roberto would spot the top of his head. His own head, hes had it for years but for some reason, tonight; it fascinates him. The way the light glints off his baldness and the mirror reflects the gentle ripples of flesh. It could be minutes before he realizes he has been staring at an odd angle to see his own head in the overhead mirror, but damn, that is one beautiful head.

The party is slowly filling with costumed and uncostumed guests.  Roberto won't likely be able to place very many of them by their respective clans, or even by name.  There are several individuals in their evening's best; it's his guess as to their clans and "professions."  The city certainly has its fair share of attractive Kindred.  As for whether or not anyone knows anything about the two dead cops in Roberto's neighborhood...Well, no one has a sign flashing over their head that says "cop killer."  Roberto doesn't even have definitive proof the deed was perpetrated by his fellow undead, only the suspicions that the violence and brutality of the scene aren't typically human.  The Sewer Rats, you have always heard, have strange ways of knowing odd pieces of information though...

Simone, on the other hand, will know full well the name's and clans of anyone who is worth knowing in the city.  As guests arrive, slipping past Simone in her post near the door, Jean rattles off names and introductions (when appropriate) to Monique, whose head is likely spinning from trying to keep up with the names and faces being presented before her.  Most don't seem to have standing in the city that's worth mentioning; Jean or Simone might mention a few facts here or there, but they're forgettable tidbits of information.

As Simone watches from her post, she sees Eldridge, Morrigan, and Lars slip into the museum, the trio eyeing those already gathered with an air of aloof condescension.  The large, silent blond Lars wears nothing more than a black t-shirt with some heavy metal band's logo on it and a pair of jeans, while his two companions have done themselves up in the garish garb typical of their respective subcultures:  short clothespinned plaid skirt and tank top for Morrigan, accentuated with plenty of torn fishnets; tight-fitting leather pants and an equally tight-fitting longsleeve mesh shirt for Eldridge.  The trio hangs around the front entrance for a few moments, Morrigan's mohawk adding nearly a third again to her height, and looking as if they're not sure whether or not they'll stay.  After a few moments they finally slink into the heart of the museum, with Eldridge giving Simone a shrug and a slightly apologetic smile as they pass.  Jean doesn't even bear to acknowledge them as they walk by, merely giving a cursory look and then saying "Youngsters of our clan," in way of explanation to Monique.

A short, round man with the physique most commonly associated with old portraits of Henry VIII enters the museum, a slim teenage girl in tow behind him.  The man wears a gray double-breasted suit with a gold pocketwatch chain hanging across the bulging girth of the man, like the chain is trying to keep his belly from breaking its seams.  His face is round and pudgy with a brown beard peppered with gray.  As he walks, a cane taps loudly behind him with stentorian authority, his white hand gripping the silver orb tightly.  His head is capped by a gray hat that would have been quite popular around the turn of the last century, but which doesn't look too entirely out of place now, if one is going for a vintage look.

The girl shuffles along behind him, her hands are demurely folded in front of her, her eyes downcast respectfully.  She is dressed in a completely accurate, down to the last detail, replica of Alice in Wonderland's blue and white ensemble of lace and petticoats.  Whereas as Alice's locks were a bright blond, however, this girl's are glossy black.

The squat man heads towards Simone, Jean, and Monique, his body moving in a slow, ponderous manner.  There is nothing comical about it, however.  You have the strange impression that this might be like watching an avalanche in slow motion.  Before he even arrives, Jean casts a look back at Simone, his face blanching a little with a slight grimace.  Simone will know full well why Jean looks like he just swallowed a pickled egg whole.  The individual lumbering towards them with implacable direction is Miles Pincheon, Jean's Malkavian counterpart on the Council.  The thickset Kindred is downright sane for a Malkavian, but that's like saying an F1 tornado is downright small for a twister.  Miles is curmudgeonly, antagonistic, and demeaning at the best of times, like that Old World grandfather you can never please no matter how hard you try.  At the worst of times...well, there is a reason why the Malkavian clan is the smallest in the city, and why most everyone walks on eggshells when within twenty feet of its primogen.  Added to that, Jean has always complained to Simone that he is quite convinced Miles has it out for him.  The girl, quite appropriately enough, is named Alice, and she is Mile's latest childe, and current favorite.

Miles stops in front of the trio of Toreador, his eyes roving over Monique for several moments, clearly taking all of her in, before he even acknowledges the other two.

"Miss Monique, Primogen Marquette," he says with a formal tip of the hat and nod of the head that has no genial warmth to it.  "And who may this bright bauble of contrived beauty be?"

Roberto always is respectful of the Nosferatu, feeling that of all the clans they are the ones who understand what it is like to walk with the Beast.

In the years he has dealt with their kind, they have always treated him with respect, their information well worth the price they sought.

They had no formal arrangement, but sometimes he would find a note on his desk in the gym telling him a place and time for a meet, so he hoped that they would have something to offer him.

After all he was curious on who was hunting in his area, one can never tell when that information would come in handy.

I was supposed to be hosting this shin-dig with Simone. You could say I got distracted, see, one of the guys setting up the musical equipment recognized me. We went to to university together, you know, back before Conrad changed my life. It was one of those opportunities you just cant pass up. I left him spent and partially drained in the back hallway. Best fuck of his life I bet he will tell people.

My entrance is less than grand, since im already upstairs its more like I just hop down from the stage. I was just taking care of the music, I tell the first person who asks with a lovely smile. I am flushed, my skin is hot and anyone really observant will smell the blood on my breath. In my costume so graciously provided by Morgana I look like an entirely different girl. I click my way over to the balcony not far from Roberto and lean over, eyes flitting from face to face looking to see if Conrad or better yet, Morgana; has shown up yet.

Finishing the drink and exchanging it for another, Angyl moves slowly and cautiously noting all the attention his presence is gathering. Watching the other Kindred through his costume's mask, he feels the heat or chill of their gazes.

Attention is one of his least favorite things, even though it always seems to attach itself to him.

I never should've come t'night.

Muttering to himself, "Damn it I wish she'd get 'ere so I could leave."

Feeling someone was watching, Roberto nodded to agree with the opinion that lace was so retro, without really paying much attention to what was actually being said, as he allowed his eyes to play around the crowd when he spotted her just above him in the balcony. She had the face of an angel and what looked like top him a bored expression on her eyes.

Making his excuses, he snagged a pair of glasses of fresh vitae from one of the passing servers as he approached her and offered her one.

"Hello there. Are you looking for someone?"

'More or less, yeah.'

I spin around when Roberto approaches me, leaning my back against the railing with my feet together. I give him a quick once over, face to shoes. Ive seen around a few times but never got his name before.

'Oh thank you.'

I smile taking the glass of still warm vitae he offers. I have to wonder who they are bleeding for this. If its fresh that means Simone, or someone else has a vessel tied up somewhere or maybe tapped like a keg in some dark back room. The thought is, well, barbaric. I much prefer what I just did to the roadie out back... even if I already forgot his name.

'Do you believe any of that?'

I finally ask Lucia. I glance in Angyls direction, still stuck on his stories of werewolves and arms being torn off. Half of me wants to believe him. I travelled far enough to hear stories and get half glimpses of things. But half of me thinks maybe the Russians pulled it off or the Prince had it ordered. Fair as Benedict may come off, my mongrel blood doesnt let me trust anyone in power.

All in all its unsettling. No options sound good for Angyl and while there might be a small pang of guilt that a Clanmate is going through hell, I feel a whole lot better knowing its him rather than me. Survival is the strongest instinct any of us have, no matter what anyone says.

If theres one arrival that I will neither be kissing not smothering with Hostess attention its Miles. To be entirely honest the Malkavian creeps me right out and its not just his thing for young girls.

2009-11-21 11:26:54 Simone rolls 6 dice to Charisma+Grace 3,4,7,7,3, 3 (2 successes)

The welcoming, social smile never falters as I answer Miles to give Jean time to regain his tongue.

'This is Monique Blanc, a new arrival and welcome addition to our city.'

Moniques current company should be a telltale sign that she is in fact one of the Toreador. We rarely flout anyone who isnt one of our own, at least not at a gathering such as this.

'Miss Blanc this is Miles Pancheon, esteemed Primogen of the Malkavians...'

I want to spit, but all anyone will see is a pretty smile, perfect teeth and glimmering green eyes. Its impossible to think that theres an ounce of spite or revulsion in my body.

"Well maybe if he doesn't come, I can be of service. Cheers." he said as he toasted their glasses, as their eyes gazed over the crowd he said to her, "Strange isn't it? When you look at them you would think every one is civilized and polite, and yet already the hunt is on its way."