Molly Toombs
While her coworkers may groan about the
odd hours one will work as a nurse, Molly actually rather enjoyed it.
She liked having weekdays off, like this one, because it meant she had
time to run every errand she could imagine and all while most of the
average citizens of the city were at work. That meant a short line at
the grocery store, a quick and easy trip to the bank, and an easy enough
commute to go buy herself some new scrubs for work since she had at
least three pairs that really should be disposed of by now.
Sure,
she had to sacrifice her Friday and Saturday nights to the swing shifts
at the hospital emergency room, but who cares? It's not like she had
parties to attend, or crowds of friends and family that would have
events that demanded her presence. The good thing about keeping only a
couple select friends from college around was that she didn't need to
block out her weekends for weddings all summer long. So she was free to
work those nights that others in her age group would groan to be cooped
up inside for, and similarly free to enjoy a day off that most people
wouldn't.
Her day bled into night, and Molly didn't correct her
schedule much on the days that she didn't work, so she was still out
even after the sun had gone down-- although she should really know
better by now.
She walked along the same stretch of sidewalk where
she had encountered and discovered an undead man last week. She wore
pair of jean shorts that were cut to have a higher waist (which helped
with tummy control), a light pink tank-top tucked into them, and a gray
cardigan over the whole thing that fell to the same length as the hem of
her shorts. Her hair was half-up, and she carried nothing with her but
the same tote bag that she always did, the one she used instead of a
regular purse.
Feet clad in clean white sneakers were easy with
their steps, moving on auto pilot because she's walked this path to take
her home almost every day since she moved into her apartment well over
two years ago. She looked like she was lost somewhere in her own
thoughts, not nearly so jumpy or cautious as you might expect someone to
be after learning that monsters were real.
Sure, they exist, she figured. But she's made it this far without being eaten alive.
Flood
It
would be untrue to say that Flood has been frequenting this street
looking for Molly. But when he finds himself walking to and from Union
Station or other destinations in its vicinity he does not go out of his
way to avoid it. In fact it has become his thoroughfare of choice whilst
traversing this little stretch of downtown Denver. And there he is.
That same dead man donning a different suit with the heavy-handed
helping of style and precise grace. His gait is that of a casual, but
purposeful, stroll. One wingtipped shoe in front of the other in his
long and assertive stride.
The kind of stride that might be called
a strut, but it's only a strut if you don't have the gravitas to go
with it, right? No, Flood is a dead man and a monster, but the worst
kind. The kind that tempts. The kind that tells you your vices and
hunger for power, your thirst for more and your bucking of the limits
and societal norms, all those things and more are okay. It's not
carousing. It's a bit more magnetic than that. He isn't the life of the
party. He's...
Your pusher man.
And for the dark things that are not nearly as base as drugs. Nothing so common. Nothing so simple. Words
he'd found himself saying recently. As he explored himself and another.
That's probably why he looks so contemplative. He does not take in the
surroundings on this darkened and dangerous (because he is there)
street.
Though Molly breaks him from his inner revery the remnants
of that introspection are still on his face when he spots and regards
her. As his path intersects with hers and each step takes them closer to
one another. Perhaps Molly's if she doesn't turn or try to cross the
street.
"What a pleasant surprise. I hope not only for one of us," he answers.
The
fabric of his suit is the kind of charcoal that looks black in this
kind of dimness. It complements his complexion where some nights black
just seemed too much of a contrast to his paper pale skin. He is wearing
a fedora, a similarly gray one with a white band, tipped forward until
his hand comes up to take it off when he finally meets her and speaks.
The gesture is polite and out of another time.
Bygone.
But this is the now and Flood seems acutely aware of it as all his attention becomes focused on one of his newest acquaintances.
Molly Toombs
Many
people who commute by foot and by public transit walk around with
headphones covering their ears. These were a useful tool to keep
strangers from trying to chat you up on the bus or ask you for change or
a cigarette on the corner. Molly was not one of these people, and her
ears were empty when she walked to and fro, especially at night. She
had a need to be aware to some extent of what was going on around her,
especially lately. She didn't want to be snuck up on, or have something
as important as the sound of a gun clicking or a knife being snapped
free from its stowaway handle go unnoticed.
Of course, she saw
Flood before she would have missed hearing anything from him anyways.
This was virtually a repeat of the first time she saw him, except this
time he was in a very dark suit and a fedora hat, and she was dressed in
street clothes instead of scrubs. She wasn't exhausted, the night was a
bit younger (it was only like 10:00pm), and there wasn't a lot of ice
left to break after their first encounter.
Molly noticed him, all
right, and was watching him cautiously as his face shifted from pensive
to attentive, and she stopped when his stride brought him directly to
her. She didn't think that he was going to just wave a greeting and be
on his way, so she was already slowing down when he came near, prepared
to greet him.
She didn't go pale to see him, didn't tremble with
fright or apprehension. That just wasn't Molly's way. She was a very
collected individual, for the most part, and tucked her hands into her
shorts pockets and pushed the cardigan back out of the way for her to
have room to do so. She didn't return his smile, because she wouldn't
call him her friend. But her tone of voice was calm and casual when she
answered him.
"Well, it's a surprise anyways," she said, and
watched him remove his hat in a show of manners that died out some time
ago. It left her to wonder what era this man really was from. She
reflexively wanted to guess the 1920's, but that was probably just
because she was looking at a suit and fedora. "On your way someplace, I
hope?"
Flood
"It's better than going no place,"
he responds. Because of course he was. Going someplace, that is, because
with the few hours available in the night there's only so much that can
be done and so much that needs doing.
He looks her over. The
shorts. The tank-top a burst of color to it all. The way he takes her in
it is like he's enjoying a burst of color in his own nightly
wanderings.
"You have a very pleasing figure," explaining the
wandering of his eyes over his form. "I've seen you in your work attire
and your play attire. And I even saw you once in a dress, though I don't
think you noticed me. But they all flatter you, so allow me to," like
he wants to cut off any shooing of his attention should she not take the
compliment. His hat rests just below his chest, still pinched between
the fingers of his left hand, and he looks down at her one last time.
At the tote bag.
"Always be prepared."
Molly Toombs
His answer was something that had Molly thinking for a second, then nodding with an expression on her face that said touché.
His retort to the dry tone that she greeted him with was fair, clever
enough, so she accepted it as a parry to her greeting and appeared
willing to carry on with listening to whatever it was that Flood felt
the need to say to her while he was on his way from point A to point B
this evening.
Whatever leniency he might have earned himself with
his wit went right out the window, though, when his green eyes combed
over her figure so openly. She was a curvy girl, full at the hip and
bust alike with thick thighs that she did little to hide this evening
and a soft stomach and waist that she was aware of without being ashamed
of. She dressed for her body type quite well, and Flood was making a
point not just of noticing that, but of letting her know that he noticed
it.
Her mouth pressed to a thin, displeased line, but she didn't
make any moves to hide herself away from him. He might have expected
that she would take the cardigan she was wearing and wrap it closed to
hide her torso from him at the very least, but she did no such thing.
She just stood with her hands in her pockets, the tote straps slung over
the shoulder opposite from the side the bag itself rested against,
which caused the straps to rest across her back and the center of her
chest respectively.
"Oh," she said with a bite of sarcasm that worked to cover the fact that he was making her uncomfortable (they love to watch us squirm, after all). "You know all the right things to say to a lady."
And then, with a small confused furrow of her eyebrows: "Allow you to be prepared? What are you getting at? Prepared for what?"
Flood
There's
a pleased smile that comes with her return. Her answer to his
compliment and all the bark and bite that comes along with it. Again
glad for her fire and weathering it easily enough.
Again it is polite.
If
he has finally knocked her off kilter as that flurry of questions might
indicate, commenting on her preparedness, his finger comes out to
indicate the tote and right her. Make her understand what he meant. That
same tote he'd picked a gun out of only nights before. The other hand
still holding that hat so that he is otherwise still as a statue. Still
as a corpse until he speaks and breaks the enchantment.
Actually, continues the magic that he embodies.
"I
meant your six-shooter, Molly. I wasn't a boy scout. But it's good
advice. Always be prepared," finally answering her questions, one and
all and at lengthy.
"How has your week been thus far? Still only
one bullet short or have you found reason to put it to use?" There is a
dash of what might be genuine concern in his voice, but it is
overshadowed by the simplicity of curiosity.
"I hope my revelation
hasn't been weighing too much on your mind," that same revelation he
had offered to obscure again. Something about ignorance and bliss, but
that would probably be lost on both of them, and it's one of the reasons
he is so pleased to see her.
She had chosen to know. And he seems interested in the development.
Molly Toombs
Oh,
he was talking about the gun. She glanced briefly down to the tote bag
at her side, then shook her head. "Oh," she said. That's what he
meant. The tone to her small vocalization was one of understanding.
It's clear to him that she'd misunderstood who he was talking about when
he spoke of being prepared, and she shifted her posture so one hand
left her shorts pocket and held onto the tote bag at her side, thumb
looped at the tote strap near its bottom.
He wanted to know if she
had to fire it, and she shrugged one shoulder to go along with her
verbal answer. "I haven't shot it. All the danger this month could
handle spent itself last week, it seems." Or so she told herself, at
least, because she had met another vampire since she encountered Flood
last, and here she was with him again tonight. She didn't trust the
tall, clean-limbed man in the suit and hat-- not one bit. She didn't
like his sharp interest in her, or how forward his nature was. She
wasn't sure what kept his interest, why he didn't just sweep past her
tonight or the night before, and it bothered her not to know.
Maybe that was why she didn't just say goodnight and walk away.
"You
hope, do you?" She huffed a little and shifted her weight between her
feet. "I went to school to learn all the laws and fundamental functions
of the human body. That's what I studied, and kind of what I do. I
know how things are supposed to work, and you've upheaved all of that.
With you here, what else is out there?" She asked, and gestured to the streets behind him, past his wide shoulders.
"You
said that there's much worse to worry about, and left me with that. Of
course it's been weighing on my mind. I have to reconsider everything
that I thought was absolute truth now." Oddly enough, accusatory though
she may be right now, she didn't actually sound angry with him for any
of what she was saying.
Flood
"I can tell you that
it makes lions and tigers and bears look like stuffed animals, but you
can probably guess at what goes bump in the night, and anything you can
guess is probably true," nodding almost casually as he paints what he
seems to think is an amusing picture of the night and all its horrors.
Its
many terrors, the least of which, or at least he seems to think, is now
standing before her. "I have my rules, though, my principles and I live
by them. I would characterize myself as a disciplined individual. I'm
sure that all of your education means that you are, as well, and your
willingness to know and reconsider shows you have an open mind. Both are
dangerous things, but like a gun, you just have to know how to use
them."
He looks around as if realizing they are at the same point
where they'd met that handful of nights ago. "We should have a more
formal meeting. Would you allow that?" He seems to have some level of
respect for her boundaries, just as he'd allowed her to find her way
home alone and without his following.
Molly Toombs
Without
her knowing his following, it should be rephrased. There was no way of
her knowing that he didn't follow the mortal woman without her noticing
him, and she had nothing but distrust for this man so she wouldn't
simply trust that he honored her insistence that he not know where she
live.
Now, let's be fair to Flood here just for a second. He hasn't actually done
anything to betray Molly's trust yet. He showed mercy to a woman
caught in a traumatic week with a strong upper lip and an aesthetic
representation of a past that he came from. Instead of finishing out
his game of cat and mouse with a feast he walked her part of the way
home before respecting her request to go the rest of the way alone. He
had plenty of options available to him. He could overpower her, he
could sneak after her, or he could reach into her very mind and flip the
switch that was her steely will and cool calm, and after that she just
wouldn't tell him no.
He had done nothing to deserve Molly's cool
and clearly untrusting (but not skiddish, it should be pointed out)
regard. This was something that he got by the grace of lacking a
heartbeat, and equally to the way that he behaved. He seemed up to
something all the time, like he was laughing at her behind his eyes and
in on some great joke that swept the spectrum of the world, and she
would never be let in on it.
And yet, when he assured her that
there were terrible, horrifying things out in the dark of night that
surrounded them, she believed him wholeheartedly. There was no doubt in
her mind that he was telling her the truth when he spoke of such grim
and scary things as though he were commenting on the weather. He had no
reason to lie to her there, nothing to lose to answering her honestly,
so he went ahead and did as he was curious about what her reactions
would be.
When he asked if she would allow him to have a more
formal meeting with her, she raised a pencil-darkened eyebrow
suspiciously and stood a little more straight. Her hands moved so they
could sink into her cardigan pockets, and she wrapped the sweater closed
in front of her, tucking her hands under her elbows to do so. The
motion was clearly self-conscious, and the fact that she began to rock
her weight back and forth from foot to foot only confirmed it. Her
voice was cautious, but hadn't changed much to reflect the anxiousness
that showed in her body language.
"Maybe. How do you mean?"
Flood
"I
mean it would be better than going no place," he begins, though he does
not shrug. Such a noncommittal gesture seems like it would be alien as a
part of Flood's repertoire.
"Night after night after night can
get boring. I'm sure you have questions and maybe I'll even answer a few
of them, but I'm asking for more than that. A bit of company. A bite to
eat - for you," and the way he interjects it's plain he'd planned out
the phrasing in order to then assuage any anxiety it might bring on.
"And allow me to be completely honest: A woman in the medical profession can always be a good friend to have." Friends. Yes.
Of course that's all he wants.
"And I can be a very good friend to have, in return," hand going to his pocket. A business card produced and held out.
"On
your terms. Completely. Give me a call and the location of your
choosing. Think on it. I'll let you get on your way -" glancing in the
direction she had been heading - "Home."
Molly Toombs
While
the vampire expressed how night after night of the same thing could get
very boring, she wondered if he was talking about his own life or
drawing a conclusion about Molly's own. If it was the latter, it was
spot on. Up until the night where men tried to harass her and one of
those men wound up trying to rape her at gunpoint, her life had been
very dull and run of the mill. She complained to the few close friends
she had about how bored she was with it, and was even in the works for
planning a lengthy out of country vacation to determine if leaving this
culture and finding a new one would sate this dissatisfaction or not.
It
would be interesting, and he would let her ask her questions-- hell, he
might even answer a couple. He's clearly got her interested, because
even as he's still speaking he'll notice the discomfort began to melt
away from her. She stopped rocking between her feet and instead stood
still, and her arms eased from how they were wrapped up close to her
torso.
When he held the card out for her, she took her right hand
from her pocket and reached out to accept it without hesitation,
thinking little of it. She looked down, read what information the card
had to offer, then brought her clear blue eyes back up to his green ones
to listen to his terms. The card was tucked into her back pocket, and
she moved her hands to hold on to the strap of her tote bag where it
rested across her chest.
"I will." Think on it or do it? She didn't clarify. "Goodnight, then, Flood. Uh. Take care."
She
took a few steps along her way, slow to start, still watching Flood
over her shoulder as she went. She'd go like this for a couple of
seconds before looking back forward, fixing her pace to something that
covered distance more effectively, and made her way back home to add
another scrap of contact information from dead men to the pile on her
dresser.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Pragmatic - 8.24.2013 [Bertram]
Bertram Kohl
The problem with a new city, regardless of which city it might be, it took time in order to get a feel for the place. Only a fool would relocate move to a new city and then neglect getting the opportunity to get to know it.
So he found himself pulled towards the arts district. It had far less to do with art, appreciation for art wasn't exactly something he was known for, it was more a pull to understand exactly where it was he lived and exactly who made it home.
Betram was well dressed, his suit tailored to fit his figure. He wasn't precisely large, or particularly tall, and to be honest he didn't really stand out in a crowd apart from that suit of his, which he seemed in ridiculously good shape!
He made his way into one of the many galleries that lined the streets here. He might have little interest in the art, but the artists were more than enough to draw him off the street and into the gallery so he could take the time to better familiarize himself with the denizens of this city. He was slow and casual as he made his way around the gallery, giving each piece equal concentration except for a few which happen to stand out for whatever reason.
Apart from the suit there wouldn't be much to separate him from any of the dozen or so collectors who happened to be out and about tonight, a few of them are also wearing suits to it'd be just a little more difficult. Still there was something about him, an air of confidence, command. The way he held himself was proud and certain... First impressions are always important.
Molly Toombs
Molly wasn't the type of girl to come to art galleries on a regular basis. She didn't consider herself a very cosmopolitan girl, and she didn't come from a background of wealth either. She hadn't build herself a vast fortune in business or fame, so she certainly couldn't afford to bring home anything that was hanging in this gallery tonight.
She was on a date. This was something she'd agreed to about two weeks ago, before things started getting strange in her world. This was before she encountered the oddly compelling man with the pale gray eyes at the bar-- before she'd nearly lost her life to gun violence in an alleyway.
Before she was walked home by a corpse.
She was dressed nicely, in a navy blue dress that was cinched with a thin braided brown belt at her waist. The skirt on the dress was cut to mid-thigh, with a higher neckline and short sleeves. Her hair was left down, curled and kinked, and her make-up was done nice. She wore a matching necklace and earring set of coral-colored glass, and had sandals tied about her feet. She stood beside a plain looking man somewhere in his late twenties with a mildly receding hairline and straw colored hair for what remained. He wore slacks and a button up shirt and was talking with two other people with a glass of wine in his hand.
Molly looked distracted. She was hovering near the man's side, but barely paying any attention at all to the conversation happening in front of her. It wasn't her date's fault, really. He wasn't the rude one. Molly had been distant all night, so she didn't have hard feelings to the fact that the man, after about forty mintues of trying to keep the curvy woman he'd brought with him engaged, gave up and decided to spend the night talking with the friends he'd brought them here for anyways.
Soon enough she excused herself from the conversation, politely enough at least, and walked away from them to the small bar they'd set up to serve complimentary drinks. She obtained herself a glass of red wine and started moving toward the back of the gallery, hunting for a door to let herself outside into the back. There she could get some quiet, some peace, and work out the odd claustrophobia that had settled in over the last couple of days.
There she could stare into space, sip her wine, and churn new knowledge over in her head until the turbulence abated.
Bertram Kohl
He wasn't here for anyone in particular, so his eyes darted about as he took in faces, listened in on conversations from afar, and quietly started sorting the groups, as well as the individuals within them, into categories.
People tended to have a finite number of archetypes, so it was easy enough to catalog them and file them away and forget about them!
Molly, however, stood out. It was hard to say if it was her appearance or just the fact that she seemed to dismiss herself from the group in order to wander off on her own. It was that little fact that separated her in his mind. Over time people blended together, cattle, food, tools... Little more. So when she took the time to separate herself from the crowd she came to life right before his eyes, and those eyes followed her all the way across the room as his curiosity got the better of him.
It wasn't exactly hard for him to peel himself away from the crowd and wander in her direction. The honest truth was that these people were just as disinteresting to him as they were to Molly. So he took the time to wander towards the door, and a few minutes after Molly left he slipped out the door himself.
He leaned back against a wall and drew in a deep breath and then gave a little sigh. "Not much of an art collector?" He asks the woman while keeping his attention towards the sky. He was clearly speaking to the only other person who happened to be out there, but his eyes licked elsewhere for the moment.
Strike up a conversation, that's it, get to know the locals. It certainly can't hurt anything to know the city in which you live. Especially if you intend to live there more than a couple months!
Molly Toombs
By the time Bertram had exited through the back door as well, Molly had made herself comfortable sitting on a short stack of pallets a couple yards to the left of the door. When the door had opened to allow a man in a fine suit to exit, Molly's head had snapped up and her eyes had cleared of the clouds of thought. Sharp was the focus of those distinctly blue eyes on Bertram's profile for the first few seconds as he stepped outside, processing that he was a person, a man, and not whatever specters were haunting her mind.
Content with the fact that it was just an average looking dude dressed for his art crawl, she looked back to her glass, took a sip, and turned her attention up the alley.
Then he spoke, initiated conversation. He'd asked if she wasn't much of an art collector. The woman's eyebrows, penciled to look darker than what they naturally were (you see, she was clearly a natural redhead, given the freckles splayed across her face), raised with curiosity as her attention was focused on the man once again.
When she processed his question, she chuckled politely and shrugged her bare shoulders. "You caught me." The hand that wasn't holding the glass of wine was moved and held out from her body, palm up, in a one-armed 'what can you do?' gesture.
"What about you? Just out for a smoke break?"
Bertram Kohl
He wore a smile on his face, he wore whatever mask he needed to whenever it was necessary, as his eyes drifted over whatever happened to draw his attention off in the distance. He could even be downright civilized when he needed to be. He let his eyes wander from the sky to glance in her direction and nod his head slowly.
"Well... Not a smoke, just a little fresh air. Get me into one of those places and it doesn't take more than a couple minutes and I feel like I am suffocating." He pauses a moment and shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know what drew me in to begin with. Just getting to know the town I suppose." He says as his attention pulls away from her.
She was pleasant to look at, and it wasn't as if he was afraid of being "found out" but why ruin the fun so quickly? It ruined the fun, and he was in no particular rush to cause any damage or harm anyone. These things have their time and place now was not it.
"It seems like there are so many more entertaining ways of passing time, it leaves you to wonder why people would choose this one in particular. Not that I have any particular problem with art in general. Collecting, however, always seemed to be an empty hobby. Something about purchasing something someone else created because you lack the confidence to create something beautiful of your own I suppose." Casual conversation, there was another one of those talents he hasn't quite forgotten. The art of striking up a conversation about nothing in particular. It beat sitting around in the darkness dreading the inevitable, it helped to distract and pass the time.
Molly Toombs
Molly was a relatively average looking girl. But she dressed in clothes that flattered her curves and didn't squeeze her stomach too snugly, and she was pretty good about applying make-up when she bothered to sit down and put thought and time into it. That is to say-- Molly Toombs, when not dressed in blood-splashed scrubs from a busy night in the emergency room, cleaned up nicely.
Nice enough, apparently, that this man in his clearly expensive looking suit thought it appropriate to strike up conversation with her in this alley behind the art gallery. She took another sip of her wine and adjusted her position where she sat on the pallets. She turned her body so she was aimed a little more toward Bertram, and crossed one leg over the other at the knee, letting her foot bounce loosely in the air. She wrapped one arm loosely over her stomach, just under her bust, and the other hand cradled the bottom of the wine glass, from which she still took occasional small sips.
"I don't disagree with you, stranger." She nodded her head back inside. "I'm not usually in this part of town unless there's a festival going on. But I was invited out tonight." She smiled, and the expression was a mingled touch of embarrassment and guilt, both of which she shrugged off easily the next instant. "He's a nice enough guy. I should feel bad for leaving him in there, but at least he has friends to talk to."
Another sip of the wine glass was taken, and she leaned forward just a little.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but this begs the question: If you can't be in an art gallery for more than a few minutes, why were you in one in the first place? You just said yourself that you don't even collect art."
Bertram Kohl
He nods his head slowly as she speaks about the man she came with. "It's no one's fault, really, not everyone's interests converge as we'd like them to. Still, you can't feel too bad, you're being honest with yourself, as well as him. A little honesty now and again is refreshing." He says back to her.
It'd be easy enough to end the game. To simply reveal what kind of creature she was dealing with, to do what his kind was so well known for doing. Bertram, however, found unnecessary acts of violence greatly diminished the power that such acts had in asserting control. None of that was relevant to the current situation, however, he wasn't here to assert dominance! He was here to learn, and little more.
Her question gets a little smile and a nod of his own. "It's a great answer... It's kinda like walking into a Pizza Parlor and then complaining about how much you hate pizza right?" He asks her softly before shrugging his shoulders. "I was just walking past and I saw people inside, figured I'd see if I still felt the same way after all this time. You never know... You get older, you mature, tastes change, all that..." He laughs softly and shrugs his shoulders as if he really didn't have much of an answer for it.
"Can't hurt to give things a second shot now and again. You never know what might happen." he pauses a moment then continues. "Bertram..." He offers over to the woman. An introduction seemed... Appropriate at the moment.
Molly Toombs
"That's fair," Molly had to say to the answer he gave. "I had the same experience with celery not that long ago."
She smiled, and the expression was full of wit more than anything else. She seemed sharp as a tack, intelligence brightened her eyes and the promise of intellectual conversation perked her interest. It was nice to talk to someone that engaged her. He pulled her mind away from the vast amount of studying that she had done two days before, from the experiences she'd had three and five days earlier still. To say that this week had been a painfully hectic, world-wrenching one would be accurate, to say the least.
He offered his name, and she answered it by rising to her sandaled feet. The back of her dress was swept with her hand a few times, knocking dust free from the dark fabric. Her arm unfolded from her waist, and she walked the few steps it took to close distance between herself and the well-dressed man.
"Molly," she answered, and stuck out the hand that wasn't cradling the wine glass. If she was gaining the name of a man who wore clothes that probably cost more than her month's rent, she may as well be a little more proper about it than calling her name back across their distance and supplying him with a nod as though he were just another dude at the bar.
"Bertram," she tried the name out, then inquired: "Where does that name come from? I don't think I've ever heard it or anything like it before."
Bertram Kohl
"It's German originally... Or at least, the name as it was given to me came out of Germany. I can't say where it comes from beyond that. It was my grandfather's name, he died when my father was fairly young and I guess he wanted to honor him." Of course now he found himself sounding like the pompous little creatures he had followed her out here to avoid.
He shook her hand firmly, not attempting to crush but certainly not taking it easy on her because she was a woman. It was something about respect, at at least the closest thing he could give a mortal woman to respect, and he saw no reason in denying it to someone who had managed to capture his attention.
Molly might detect that his hands were cold to the touch, in fact when you consider it's not exactly cold outside that might stand out as his hands were clearly a bit colder than they should be considering the temperature. This was something Bertram could have easily avoided by wearing gloves, but this was of little concern to him tonight.
"Are you native to the area? Visiting? Or a newcomer like me?" He asks her curiously. "If you don't mind my asking, of course." He concludes, not wanting to be overbearing or overly direct.
Molly Toombs
[Perception 3 + Medicine 3: Goodness, those hands are but cold. Whatever for?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
The explanation he had for his name was a reasonable one. Old German, she would take his word for it, she didn't to go college to study cultures or history after all. When he grasped the hand she'd offered, he did so firmly without crushing her fingers. Her grasp wasn't nearly so forward-- it was loose and gentle, a far more ladylike thing than not.
Or, it was at first at least. But his hand was cold, astoundingly so. The way that his skin responded to pressure and human touch wasn't what it would be if warm blood pumped regularly through those veins. The smile slipped away from her face, and she squeezed his hand just a little bit harder, hunting for a pulse along the side of his wrist, within his fingers, between his thumb and forefinger-- anywhere that there ought to be one. And there was none.
She realized when he asked if she was a native that he didn't draw breath between the punctuations of his sentences, as most people would. It occurred to her that he didn't blink nearly so naturally as a living man would. These things were uncomfortably familiar to her from a recent encounter, and her face was as serious as the grave when she let go of his hand.
The pleasantries were dropped like they had scalded her hands and done her a personal injustice in the process. There was distrust written all over her face, her heart hop-skipped a little bit, but its pace was found again. Her breathing stayed level, and she made sure her head did too. She was good at that. And after all, the tall handsome man from the other night hadn't come back to kill her in his sleep, had he?
His question was swept aside, ignored outright, and she instead asked of him: "How many of You are there? And why," this last one tastes rhetorical, "do you keep finding me?"
Bertram Kohl
Bertram would have been happy enough to make idle chitchat about the weather and sports teams and careers and anything else she wanted to. Conversation was a skill which needed to be practiced regularly if you're ever going to make any use of it!
Certainly there were those among his kind who frowned upon it. There were those of his kind who outright detested him for it but Bertram was a pragmatic sort and to brush the entire human race aside because they happened to be "lesser" would be throwing away a potent and powerful resource that would be far better suited in his hands than his enemies.
So conversation, it seemed, would be the direction the evening would take. Until she speaks, until she reveals the fact she knows exactly what he is, or at least she has a strong impression. The conversation went from friendly to wary to accusatory in the blink of an eye and it only seemed to lift his smile and his spirits.
This one was a little more clever than most. He knew there was a reason he was drawn in her direction from the start.
"Dozens..." He says with a shrug of his shoulders. "Hundreds, thousands, it really depends on the region specified and the time of year. If you're wondering how many in Denver? Well, I'll be honest with you and admit that I honestly don't know." His eyes shift away from her a moment as if in thought before letting his eyes snap back to her own. "Though, to be honest even if I did know the number I would probably tell you that I had no idea as I did just a moment ago, so to be honest I probably wouldn't be the most reliable person to be asking that question." Still he smiled, seemed to put on a friendly enough demeanour as he studied the woman before him.
"I can't honestly say how we keep finding you either! I will admit this seems to be just a matter of random chance, though you have me curious as to precisely who you've met before! Do you meet others like me regularly?" He asks the woman in a curious enough tone. He was definitely very interested in this woman suddenly.
Molly Toombs
The nonchalance of the man's -- no, she was having problems perceiving him as a man. Men had pulses and warmth to their skin. Men blinked and drew air and relied on oxygen and other bio-chemical reactions in order to sustain life.
These things, though, they didn't even need that.
Well, wait. To call them 'things' was being unfair. They came from somewhere, they were men once upon a time ago. They held conversations and had thoughts and interests. She was fairly sure they could even sense guilt-- she thought she might have perceived that (in retrospect, of course) with that one who called himself 'Flood'. They were not men, but they were definitely people.
She was still cautious with Bertram, though, even though he didn't miss a beat and answered her question with full honesty (or, if you took his word on it, it was full honesty) and a chipper, upbeat kind of tone. Rather than being upset with her knowing what he was and calling him out on the facade that he was playing for that night, he seemed downright pleased with her for it. Like he was going to reach into his wallet, pull out a gold star sticker, and press it to the breast of her dress and pat her on the head. Such a clever girl, this Molly!
He said he didn't know how many there were here, but there were thousands at least around the world, possibly even in just specific regions of the world depending on the time of year (whatever that indicated, maybe they had holidays or festivals or giant conferences?). Even if he did know, though, he wouldn't tell her. He was curious to know how often she ran into people like him, though.
Her answer was slow to come, and she took a slow and easy step back away from him and sipped her wine as she did so. The arm not dedicated to the wine glass crossed her stomach and the belt that was tied to create a waistline on the garment, and her hand cupped the opposite elbow. Her posture switched so her weight was leaned more dominantly on one foot than the other, and this caused a hip to cock out further than its partner.
"Just the one so far. But that was only just three days ago."
Bertram Kohl
She wasn't fleeing, despite knowing what he was, despite knowing what he could do... She sat there in front of him and answered his questions like a true trooper. This impressed him more than anything, the woman was brave and courage was a trait even his kind could understand.
"We can be a fairly varied lot, that much is certain, though I am curious as to the impression this other one left. What I mean, is that I'd actually expect you to be running, fleeing, throwing your drink in my face... Something along those lines, and yet there you are... That isn't to say you need to be afraid, If I was going to harm you I'd have done it already, so we can safely put that little concern behind us. I just find myself curious." He pauses to think for a second or two. "What do you do for a living?" He asks her as he turns around and walks slowly away, he wasn't leaving simply moving. His shoes tapped lightly against the floor, echoing getly against the buildings around them.
"Oh, and did this other one leave you a name? And where did you..." Another pause as he ponders how to phrase the question. "Encounter this other one." He turns on a heel to face her again. Smile still curious and friendly.People had utility and so far this one had a little bit more potential than most, and nothing that had utility to Bertram was ever wasted!
Molly Toombs
The man with the dark hair, plain face, and expensive suit turned away from her and walked a short ways, putting some distance between himself and the simple mortal woman who stood before him like a pillar of defiance against his very nature, refusing to be shaken by his presence or rattled by the potential danger that he promised to her.
When he turned about to face her again, he'd asked several questions, and Molly shook her head just the tiniest bit at him and tipped her head back so that she could finish the wine that she was carrying with her in two quick gulps. With the drink consumed, she set the wine glass on the lid of a large plastic garbage bin that stood beside the gallery's back door. Her throat cleared some and she settled her arms to rest in a loose wrap about the bottom of her rib cage.
"Well, running away wouldn't do me any good. You're faster than I can probably even imagine without seeing first hand. And to aggravate you would be doing myself no favors." That is the plain explanation she gives for not running or yelling or trying to escape him. She was treating him kind of like a bear encountered in the woods-- acting chill is probably the best thing you can do, because anything else would either pique its interest or antagonize it.
He wanted to know what she did for a living, and she answered simply: "Nurse," before letting that topic drop. She didn't want to talk about herself all that much, because she didn't want this strange new vampire to become too interested in her. That was the last thing she needed. He wanted to know about the other vampire she'd encountered, so she let that be the focus of conversation instead (even if she was glancing past Bertram, plainly looking for an opportunity to leave).
"He called himself Flood, and I met him downtown a bit southwest of the city center. I wouldn't know where to find him, so I can't really point you in the right direction to go shake his hand or anything."
She shifted her weight some, and without taking too much pause to give him room to ask any more questions, continued: "Bertram, you're a pleasant guy and all, but I'm sure you've got to understand that I'd like to cut our conversation short and take myself home. Self preservation and all."
Bertram Kohl
The fact that standing still was probably better for her was a bit of an understatement. Bertram tried not to be unnecessarily violent but cowardice was something that he didn't abide easily. So, as luck would have it, she picked the right night to stand her ground and confront him rather than flee into the darkness.
"It's true." He says in agreement. "I mean I couldn't say it was universally true, but for your own sake I wouldn't advise running from any of my kind. While many will be more than happy to let you, there are plenty who are just as likely to treat flight in the same way any predator might, and the last thing you need is to find yourself chased down by someone running off pure instinct. Better to confront your fears directly, and hope that the one you are speaking is polite enough to leave you unharmed." Advice, it would seem, from one of his kind to a woman who appears to have knowledge of their kind.
She mentions being a Nurse and he purses his lips in thought and nods his head. "Nurse? I would have expected Navy Seal or Martial Arts instructor. You don't typically expect a nurse to hold her ground in cases like this. I'm impressed!" He adds.
She mentions Flood and his head nods slowly. Not seeming to have any problem with her response. "Well if you don't know... You don't know! What more is there to it?" He asks her with a shrug of his shoulders.
He finds himself taking a seat just before she asks her question, and he looks her over very slowly. She was asking his permission to leave, and he couldn't help but find that amusing! He pondered her words for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "Oh I don't want to keep you any longer than you need to be here. However, there is that little matter of what needs to be done about you. I mean, you have names and faces and that could make you an annoyance." He says softly to himself.
"I'm not like the rest of my kind. There are many who would look at someone like yourself and see nothing but a snack..." He trails off a little and laughs softly as he continues. "And that'd be if you were lucky enough to get one of the softer sorts." He says this with a look of amusement on his face as if there was something worse than being treated as food. Indeed there were far worse fates, but that is a matter for another time! Right now the woman wishes to leave and Bertram doesn't want to keep her any longer than he needs to.
"I consider myself a bit more pragmatic. When I look at a thing I like to ask what it can do for me..." He says with a shrug of his shoulders. "If someone knows my name and my face and they're of no use to me, well... I think we both understand what that means, am I right?" He offers her a moment to ponder that, a moment to think it over, sure it had the hint of a threat behind it but Bertram was also trying to be realistic here! He was a vampire, she knew he was a vampire... Problems could arise from such a situation! It only seemed right.
"I think the two of us could benefit one another." He says as he pushes himself to his feet. "In what capacity, precisely?" He asks her. "That'll have to be seen, but I figure the details of a mutually beneficial arrangement are something we can work out over time. You're tired, and doubtlessly have to worry about work tomorrow... So feel free to head on home, just let me leave you this..." He says before reaching into his chest pocket and pulling out a small pad and pencil. He takes a moment or two to jot down a phone number before ripping the paper loose and closing the gap between them slowly enough to present it to her.
"That will get you into contact with a business associate of mine. If you find yourself in any trouble with one of my kind... Simply call that number and inform the man on the other end of the line. He'll take care of the rest." He says before offering a smile and a wave of his fingers. "You have a wonderful evening Molly! Sleep well!"
Molly Toombs
He would have guessed that she was a martial arts instructor or a military careerwoman, and his confession of this had Molly raising her eyes in surprise and skepticism. He wouldn't expect a nurse to stand her ground like this! That is left alone. She could have gone on to tell him that you needed to have steely nerves and a strong stomach and a lot of patience to work in the emergency room during the swing shift, which was prime time for victims of violence to come through the doors. In the last month especially, for some reason she couldn't identify, things had gotten worse and their beds were full almost every night and she couldn't even find time to get herself a drink of water for hours at a time during her shifts.
If that didn't strengthen your resolve, she didn't know what would. But she let that go in favor of disengaging herself from this man and trying to bow her way out without treading on the man's good manners and want for conversation. She didn't want to piss him off and change his mind about leaving her unharmed that night.
She was about to try and cut in and wish him a good night, but the man was circling back around and sitting down nearby so he could be comfortable while he explained where he was coming from, and what terms he felt their encounter should have.
The fact that she knew his name, his face, and what he was posed a problem. He couldn't very well just let her go running around with that knowledge unchecked. At this point in the conversation Molly's lips pressed together and her heartbeat picked up faster, but she didn't say a word. She let him finish.
He said that he felt this could be balanced if they came to a mutually beneficial agreement with one another. Then he jotted down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She took it, glanced at the number he'd written, and held onto it without stashing it away anywhere. She wasn't carrying a purse or a clutch, so she had nowhere to put it but her bra, and she didn't think it would be most appropriate to dip her fingers down the front of her dress in front of someone who would literally eat her alive if tempted to do so.
He bade her goodnight, and she nodded slowly, cautiously, and turned to take a few steps away to leave. But she paused, and turned back to ask him a question in turn: "Bertram, I don't want to call on you if I'm gonna be looped into owing you a favor. So, I'm probably not going to call you at all. I want you to know that right out the gate. ....Are you gonna make me worry about you coming after me for that?"
Bertram Kohl
He took the time to glance down at the paper and then back up towards her, his eyes seeking out her own. "I am leaving you the number in case of emergency, and I'd advise you to keep it on hand, my kind can be..." He pauses a moment and takes in a slow and deep breath as he searches for the right word. His eyes drifting up into the sky for several beats of her heart, before letting them snap back to meet hers. "You will just have to trust me that there are those among my kind who you do not want to get a hold of you." He says before pointing his finger towards the paper.
"That number, right there, may one day be the only course of action yo have to avoid that fate." He says with a shrug of his shoulders. "That's your emergency contact, just in case..." He says with a little smile. "I didn't give it to you so we could casually chat over coffee." He adds a soft laugh.
"As far as anything else goes... I suppose we'll see about that. I just want you to be prepared for whatever you might find on the road ahead. It's an interesting new world you've found yourself taking part in. I'd hate to see you go to waste as little more than a late night snack." He adds with a nod of his head.
He was trying his best not to be directly threatening, but there was a seriousness in his tone that implied she would want to keep that number on hand... Just... In... Case.
"I'm keeping you, though, go on... Get yourself home! I'll make sure your date knows you're safe."
Molly Toombs
He dodged her question. He wouldn't tell her if she needed to worry about him coming for her later on. Instead, he just insisted that she keep that phone number because he felt strongly that she would need it.
His kind weren't nearly so generous as he was, after all, and he might end up being her ace in the hole if she found herself in some sort of trouble with his society. That's what she figured it was by now, by the way-- a society of vampires, not just errant disorganized monsters in the night. Why else would he be so curious to know who she had encountered already? Why else would he be so aware of the typical habits of his kind? They must spend plenty of time around one another, the vampires of the city. She assumed that they had some structure to their world behind that of the city they lived in. She wasn't very eager to know all about it, though.
So, when he urged her to leave a second time, she nodded to him with a look of confusion, conflict and caution smeared all over her face.
"Alright," she conceded finally, and added: "Thank you. Good night, Bertram."
And with that said she picked up the wine glass and entered back in to the gallery. Once inside she would be quick about finding her date, letting him know that she was feeling unwell and tired all at once and that she would like to go home. To err on the side of safety, even though their date was a clear bust that wouldn't be happening again, she accepted his offer to drive her home, knowing full well it was an offer he made only to be polite. She wasn't going to be seeing him again, after all, so what did it matter if she was taking advantage of a socially contracted offer? As long as it got her home safe.
The problem with a new city, regardless of which city it might be, it took time in order to get a feel for the place. Only a fool would relocate move to a new city and then neglect getting the opportunity to get to know it.
So he found himself pulled towards the arts district. It had far less to do with art, appreciation for art wasn't exactly something he was known for, it was more a pull to understand exactly where it was he lived and exactly who made it home.
Betram was well dressed, his suit tailored to fit his figure. He wasn't precisely large, or particularly tall, and to be honest he didn't really stand out in a crowd apart from that suit of his, which he seemed in ridiculously good shape!
He made his way into one of the many galleries that lined the streets here. He might have little interest in the art, but the artists were more than enough to draw him off the street and into the gallery so he could take the time to better familiarize himself with the denizens of this city. He was slow and casual as he made his way around the gallery, giving each piece equal concentration except for a few which happen to stand out for whatever reason.
Apart from the suit there wouldn't be much to separate him from any of the dozen or so collectors who happened to be out and about tonight, a few of them are also wearing suits to it'd be just a little more difficult. Still there was something about him, an air of confidence, command. The way he held himself was proud and certain... First impressions are always important.
Molly Toombs
Molly wasn't the type of girl to come to art galleries on a regular basis. She didn't consider herself a very cosmopolitan girl, and she didn't come from a background of wealth either. She hadn't build herself a vast fortune in business or fame, so she certainly couldn't afford to bring home anything that was hanging in this gallery tonight.
She was on a date. This was something she'd agreed to about two weeks ago, before things started getting strange in her world. This was before she encountered the oddly compelling man with the pale gray eyes at the bar-- before she'd nearly lost her life to gun violence in an alleyway.
Before she was walked home by a corpse.
She was dressed nicely, in a navy blue dress that was cinched with a thin braided brown belt at her waist. The skirt on the dress was cut to mid-thigh, with a higher neckline and short sleeves. Her hair was left down, curled and kinked, and her make-up was done nice. She wore a matching necklace and earring set of coral-colored glass, and had sandals tied about her feet. She stood beside a plain looking man somewhere in his late twenties with a mildly receding hairline and straw colored hair for what remained. He wore slacks and a button up shirt and was talking with two other people with a glass of wine in his hand.
Molly looked distracted. She was hovering near the man's side, but barely paying any attention at all to the conversation happening in front of her. It wasn't her date's fault, really. He wasn't the rude one. Molly had been distant all night, so she didn't have hard feelings to the fact that the man, after about forty mintues of trying to keep the curvy woman he'd brought with him engaged, gave up and decided to spend the night talking with the friends he'd brought them here for anyways.
Soon enough she excused herself from the conversation, politely enough at least, and walked away from them to the small bar they'd set up to serve complimentary drinks. She obtained herself a glass of red wine and started moving toward the back of the gallery, hunting for a door to let herself outside into the back. There she could get some quiet, some peace, and work out the odd claustrophobia that had settled in over the last couple of days.
There she could stare into space, sip her wine, and churn new knowledge over in her head until the turbulence abated.
Bertram Kohl
He wasn't here for anyone in particular, so his eyes darted about as he took in faces, listened in on conversations from afar, and quietly started sorting the groups, as well as the individuals within them, into categories.
People tended to have a finite number of archetypes, so it was easy enough to catalog them and file them away and forget about them!
Molly, however, stood out. It was hard to say if it was her appearance or just the fact that she seemed to dismiss herself from the group in order to wander off on her own. It was that little fact that separated her in his mind. Over time people blended together, cattle, food, tools... Little more. So when she took the time to separate herself from the crowd she came to life right before his eyes, and those eyes followed her all the way across the room as his curiosity got the better of him.
It wasn't exactly hard for him to peel himself away from the crowd and wander in her direction. The honest truth was that these people were just as disinteresting to him as they were to Molly. So he took the time to wander towards the door, and a few minutes after Molly left he slipped out the door himself.
He leaned back against a wall and drew in a deep breath and then gave a little sigh. "Not much of an art collector?" He asks the woman while keeping his attention towards the sky. He was clearly speaking to the only other person who happened to be out there, but his eyes licked elsewhere for the moment.
Strike up a conversation, that's it, get to know the locals. It certainly can't hurt anything to know the city in which you live. Especially if you intend to live there more than a couple months!
Molly Toombs
By the time Bertram had exited through the back door as well, Molly had made herself comfortable sitting on a short stack of pallets a couple yards to the left of the door. When the door had opened to allow a man in a fine suit to exit, Molly's head had snapped up and her eyes had cleared of the clouds of thought. Sharp was the focus of those distinctly blue eyes on Bertram's profile for the first few seconds as he stepped outside, processing that he was a person, a man, and not whatever specters were haunting her mind.
Content with the fact that it was just an average looking dude dressed for his art crawl, she looked back to her glass, took a sip, and turned her attention up the alley.
Then he spoke, initiated conversation. He'd asked if she wasn't much of an art collector. The woman's eyebrows, penciled to look darker than what they naturally were (you see, she was clearly a natural redhead, given the freckles splayed across her face), raised with curiosity as her attention was focused on the man once again.
When she processed his question, she chuckled politely and shrugged her bare shoulders. "You caught me." The hand that wasn't holding the glass of wine was moved and held out from her body, palm up, in a one-armed 'what can you do?' gesture.
"What about you? Just out for a smoke break?"
Bertram Kohl
He wore a smile on his face, he wore whatever mask he needed to whenever it was necessary, as his eyes drifted over whatever happened to draw his attention off in the distance. He could even be downright civilized when he needed to be. He let his eyes wander from the sky to glance in her direction and nod his head slowly.
"Well... Not a smoke, just a little fresh air. Get me into one of those places and it doesn't take more than a couple minutes and I feel like I am suffocating." He pauses a moment and shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know what drew me in to begin with. Just getting to know the town I suppose." He says as his attention pulls away from her.
She was pleasant to look at, and it wasn't as if he was afraid of being "found out" but why ruin the fun so quickly? It ruined the fun, and he was in no particular rush to cause any damage or harm anyone. These things have their time and place now was not it.
"It seems like there are so many more entertaining ways of passing time, it leaves you to wonder why people would choose this one in particular. Not that I have any particular problem with art in general. Collecting, however, always seemed to be an empty hobby. Something about purchasing something someone else created because you lack the confidence to create something beautiful of your own I suppose." Casual conversation, there was another one of those talents he hasn't quite forgotten. The art of striking up a conversation about nothing in particular. It beat sitting around in the darkness dreading the inevitable, it helped to distract and pass the time.
Molly Toombs
Molly was a relatively average looking girl. But she dressed in clothes that flattered her curves and didn't squeeze her stomach too snugly, and she was pretty good about applying make-up when she bothered to sit down and put thought and time into it. That is to say-- Molly Toombs, when not dressed in blood-splashed scrubs from a busy night in the emergency room, cleaned up nicely.
Nice enough, apparently, that this man in his clearly expensive looking suit thought it appropriate to strike up conversation with her in this alley behind the art gallery. She took another sip of her wine and adjusted her position where she sat on the pallets. She turned her body so she was aimed a little more toward Bertram, and crossed one leg over the other at the knee, letting her foot bounce loosely in the air. She wrapped one arm loosely over her stomach, just under her bust, and the other hand cradled the bottom of the wine glass, from which she still took occasional small sips.
"I don't disagree with you, stranger." She nodded her head back inside. "I'm not usually in this part of town unless there's a festival going on. But I was invited out tonight." She smiled, and the expression was a mingled touch of embarrassment and guilt, both of which she shrugged off easily the next instant. "He's a nice enough guy. I should feel bad for leaving him in there, but at least he has friends to talk to."
Another sip of the wine glass was taken, and she leaned forward just a little.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but this begs the question: If you can't be in an art gallery for more than a few minutes, why were you in one in the first place? You just said yourself that you don't even collect art."
Bertram Kohl
He nods his head slowly as she speaks about the man she came with. "It's no one's fault, really, not everyone's interests converge as we'd like them to. Still, you can't feel too bad, you're being honest with yourself, as well as him. A little honesty now and again is refreshing." He says back to her.
It'd be easy enough to end the game. To simply reveal what kind of creature she was dealing with, to do what his kind was so well known for doing. Bertram, however, found unnecessary acts of violence greatly diminished the power that such acts had in asserting control. None of that was relevant to the current situation, however, he wasn't here to assert dominance! He was here to learn, and little more.
Her question gets a little smile and a nod of his own. "It's a great answer... It's kinda like walking into a Pizza Parlor and then complaining about how much you hate pizza right?" He asks her softly before shrugging his shoulders. "I was just walking past and I saw people inside, figured I'd see if I still felt the same way after all this time. You never know... You get older, you mature, tastes change, all that..." He laughs softly and shrugs his shoulders as if he really didn't have much of an answer for it.
"Can't hurt to give things a second shot now and again. You never know what might happen." he pauses a moment then continues. "Bertram..." He offers over to the woman. An introduction seemed... Appropriate at the moment.
Molly Toombs
"That's fair," Molly had to say to the answer he gave. "I had the same experience with celery not that long ago."
She smiled, and the expression was full of wit more than anything else. She seemed sharp as a tack, intelligence brightened her eyes and the promise of intellectual conversation perked her interest. It was nice to talk to someone that engaged her. He pulled her mind away from the vast amount of studying that she had done two days before, from the experiences she'd had three and five days earlier still. To say that this week had been a painfully hectic, world-wrenching one would be accurate, to say the least.
He offered his name, and she answered it by rising to her sandaled feet. The back of her dress was swept with her hand a few times, knocking dust free from the dark fabric. Her arm unfolded from her waist, and she walked the few steps it took to close distance between herself and the well-dressed man.
"Molly," she answered, and stuck out the hand that wasn't cradling the wine glass. If she was gaining the name of a man who wore clothes that probably cost more than her month's rent, she may as well be a little more proper about it than calling her name back across their distance and supplying him with a nod as though he were just another dude at the bar.
"Bertram," she tried the name out, then inquired: "Where does that name come from? I don't think I've ever heard it or anything like it before."
Bertram Kohl
"It's German originally... Or at least, the name as it was given to me came out of Germany. I can't say where it comes from beyond that. It was my grandfather's name, he died when my father was fairly young and I guess he wanted to honor him." Of course now he found himself sounding like the pompous little creatures he had followed her out here to avoid.
He shook her hand firmly, not attempting to crush but certainly not taking it easy on her because she was a woman. It was something about respect, at at least the closest thing he could give a mortal woman to respect, and he saw no reason in denying it to someone who had managed to capture his attention.
Molly might detect that his hands were cold to the touch, in fact when you consider it's not exactly cold outside that might stand out as his hands were clearly a bit colder than they should be considering the temperature. This was something Bertram could have easily avoided by wearing gloves, but this was of little concern to him tonight.
"Are you native to the area? Visiting? Or a newcomer like me?" He asks her curiously. "If you don't mind my asking, of course." He concludes, not wanting to be overbearing or overly direct.
Molly Toombs
[Perception 3 + Medicine 3: Goodness, those hands are but cold. Whatever for?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
The explanation he had for his name was a reasonable one. Old German, she would take his word for it, she didn't to go college to study cultures or history after all. When he grasped the hand she'd offered, he did so firmly without crushing her fingers. Her grasp wasn't nearly so forward-- it was loose and gentle, a far more ladylike thing than not.
Or, it was at first at least. But his hand was cold, astoundingly so. The way that his skin responded to pressure and human touch wasn't what it would be if warm blood pumped regularly through those veins. The smile slipped away from her face, and she squeezed his hand just a little bit harder, hunting for a pulse along the side of his wrist, within his fingers, between his thumb and forefinger-- anywhere that there ought to be one. And there was none.
She realized when he asked if she was a native that he didn't draw breath between the punctuations of his sentences, as most people would. It occurred to her that he didn't blink nearly so naturally as a living man would. These things were uncomfortably familiar to her from a recent encounter, and her face was as serious as the grave when she let go of his hand.
The pleasantries were dropped like they had scalded her hands and done her a personal injustice in the process. There was distrust written all over her face, her heart hop-skipped a little bit, but its pace was found again. Her breathing stayed level, and she made sure her head did too. She was good at that. And after all, the tall handsome man from the other night hadn't come back to kill her in his sleep, had he?
His question was swept aside, ignored outright, and she instead asked of him: "How many of You are there? And why," this last one tastes rhetorical, "do you keep finding me?"
Bertram Kohl
Bertram would have been happy enough to make idle chitchat about the weather and sports teams and careers and anything else she wanted to. Conversation was a skill which needed to be practiced regularly if you're ever going to make any use of it!
Certainly there were those among his kind who frowned upon it. There were those of his kind who outright detested him for it but Bertram was a pragmatic sort and to brush the entire human race aside because they happened to be "lesser" would be throwing away a potent and powerful resource that would be far better suited in his hands than his enemies.
So conversation, it seemed, would be the direction the evening would take. Until she speaks, until she reveals the fact she knows exactly what he is, or at least she has a strong impression. The conversation went from friendly to wary to accusatory in the blink of an eye and it only seemed to lift his smile and his spirits.
This one was a little more clever than most. He knew there was a reason he was drawn in her direction from the start.
"Dozens..." He says with a shrug of his shoulders. "Hundreds, thousands, it really depends on the region specified and the time of year. If you're wondering how many in Denver? Well, I'll be honest with you and admit that I honestly don't know." His eyes shift away from her a moment as if in thought before letting his eyes snap back to her own. "Though, to be honest even if I did know the number I would probably tell you that I had no idea as I did just a moment ago, so to be honest I probably wouldn't be the most reliable person to be asking that question." Still he smiled, seemed to put on a friendly enough demeanour as he studied the woman before him.
"I can't honestly say how we keep finding you either! I will admit this seems to be just a matter of random chance, though you have me curious as to precisely who you've met before! Do you meet others like me regularly?" He asks the woman in a curious enough tone. He was definitely very interested in this woman suddenly.
Molly Toombs
The nonchalance of the man's -- no, she was having problems perceiving him as a man. Men had pulses and warmth to their skin. Men blinked and drew air and relied on oxygen and other bio-chemical reactions in order to sustain life.
These things, though, they didn't even need that.
Well, wait. To call them 'things' was being unfair. They came from somewhere, they were men once upon a time ago. They held conversations and had thoughts and interests. She was fairly sure they could even sense guilt-- she thought she might have perceived that (in retrospect, of course) with that one who called himself 'Flood'. They were not men, but they were definitely people.
She was still cautious with Bertram, though, even though he didn't miss a beat and answered her question with full honesty (or, if you took his word on it, it was full honesty) and a chipper, upbeat kind of tone. Rather than being upset with her knowing what he was and calling him out on the facade that he was playing for that night, he seemed downright pleased with her for it. Like he was going to reach into his wallet, pull out a gold star sticker, and press it to the breast of her dress and pat her on the head. Such a clever girl, this Molly!
He said he didn't know how many there were here, but there were thousands at least around the world, possibly even in just specific regions of the world depending on the time of year (whatever that indicated, maybe they had holidays or festivals or giant conferences?). Even if he did know, though, he wouldn't tell her. He was curious to know how often she ran into people like him, though.
Her answer was slow to come, and she took a slow and easy step back away from him and sipped her wine as she did so. The arm not dedicated to the wine glass crossed her stomach and the belt that was tied to create a waistline on the garment, and her hand cupped the opposite elbow. Her posture switched so her weight was leaned more dominantly on one foot than the other, and this caused a hip to cock out further than its partner.
"Just the one so far. But that was only just three days ago."
Bertram Kohl
She wasn't fleeing, despite knowing what he was, despite knowing what he could do... She sat there in front of him and answered his questions like a true trooper. This impressed him more than anything, the woman was brave and courage was a trait even his kind could understand.
"We can be a fairly varied lot, that much is certain, though I am curious as to the impression this other one left. What I mean, is that I'd actually expect you to be running, fleeing, throwing your drink in my face... Something along those lines, and yet there you are... That isn't to say you need to be afraid, If I was going to harm you I'd have done it already, so we can safely put that little concern behind us. I just find myself curious." He pauses to think for a second or two. "What do you do for a living?" He asks her as he turns around and walks slowly away, he wasn't leaving simply moving. His shoes tapped lightly against the floor, echoing getly against the buildings around them.
"Oh, and did this other one leave you a name? And where did you..." Another pause as he ponders how to phrase the question. "Encounter this other one." He turns on a heel to face her again. Smile still curious and friendly.People had utility and so far this one had a little bit more potential than most, and nothing that had utility to Bertram was ever wasted!
Molly Toombs
The man with the dark hair, plain face, and expensive suit turned away from her and walked a short ways, putting some distance between himself and the simple mortal woman who stood before him like a pillar of defiance against his very nature, refusing to be shaken by his presence or rattled by the potential danger that he promised to her.
When he turned about to face her again, he'd asked several questions, and Molly shook her head just the tiniest bit at him and tipped her head back so that she could finish the wine that she was carrying with her in two quick gulps. With the drink consumed, she set the wine glass on the lid of a large plastic garbage bin that stood beside the gallery's back door. Her throat cleared some and she settled her arms to rest in a loose wrap about the bottom of her rib cage.
"Well, running away wouldn't do me any good. You're faster than I can probably even imagine without seeing first hand. And to aggravate you would be doing myself no favors." That is the plain explanation she gives for not running or yelling or trying to escape him. She was treating him kind of like a bear encountered in the woods-- acting chill is probably the best thing you can do, because anything else would either pique its interest or antagonize it.
He wanted to know what she did for a living, and she answered simply: "Nurse," before letting that topic drop. She didn't want to talk about herself all that much, because she didn't want this strange new vampire to become too interested in her. That was the last thing she needed. He wanted to know about the other vampire she'd encountered, so she let that be the focus of conversation instead (even if she was glancing past Bertram, plainly looking for an opportunity to leave).
"He called himself Flood, and I met him downtown a bit southwest of the city center. I wouldn't know where to find him, so I can't really point you in the right direction to go shake his hand or anything."
She shifted her weight some, and without taking too much pause to give him room to ask any more questions, continued: "Bertram, you're a pleasant guy and all, but I'm sure you've got to understand that I'd like to cut our conversation short and take myself home. Self preservation and all."
Bertram Kohl
The fact that standing still was probably better for her was a bit of an understatement. Bertram tried not to be unnecessarily violent but cowardice was something that he didn't abide easily. So, as luck would have it, she picked the right night to stand her ground and confront him rather than flee into the darkness.
"It's true." He says in agreement. "I mean I couldn't say it was universally true, but for your own sake I wouldn't advise running from any of my kind. While many will be more than happy to let you, there are plenty who are just as likely to treat flight in the same way any predator might, and the last thing you need is to find yourself chased down by someone running off pure instinct. Better to confront your fears directly, and hope that the one you are speaking is polite enough to leave you unharmed." Advice, it would seem, from one of his kind to a woman who appears to have knowledge of their kind.
She mentions being a Nurse and he purses his lips in thought and nods his head. "Nurse? I would have expected Navy Seal or Martial Arts instructor. You don't typically expect a nurse to hold her ground in cases like this. I'm impressed!" He adds.
She mentions Flood and his head nods slowly. Not seeming to have any problem with her response. "Well if you don't know... You don't know! What more is there to it?" He asks her with a shrug of his shoulders.
He finds himself taking a seat just before she asks her question, and he looks her over very slowly. She was asking his permission to leave, and he couldn't help but find that amusing! He pondered her words for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "Oh I don't want to keep you any longer than you need to be here. However, there is that little matter of what needs to be done about you. I mean, you have names and faces and that could make you an annoyance." He says softly to himself.
"I'm not like the rest of my kind. There are many who would look at someone like yourself and see nothing but a snack..." He trails off a little and laughs softly as he continues. "And that'd be if you were lucky enough to get one of the softer sorts." He says this with a look of amusement on his face as if there was something worse than being treated as food. Indeed there were far worse fates, but that is a matter for another time! Right now the woman wishes to leave and Bertram doesn't want to keep her any longer than he needs to.
"I consider myself a bit more pragmatic. When I look at a thing I like to ask what it can do for me..." He says with a shrug of his shoulders. "If someone knows my name and my face and they're of no use to me, well... I think we both understand what that means, am I right?" He offers her a moment to ponder that, a moment to think it over, sure it had the hint of a threat behind it but Bertram was also trying to be realistic here! He was a vampire, she knew he was a vampire... Problems could arise from such a situation! It only seemed right.
"I think the two of us could benefit one another." He says as he pushes himself to his feet. "In what capacity, precisely?" He asks her. "That'll have to be seen, but I figure the details of a mutually beneficial arrangement are something we can work out over time. You're tired, and doubtlessly have to worry about work tomorrow... So feel free to head on home, just let me leave you this..." He says before reaching into his chest pocket and pulling out a small pad and pencil. He takes a moment or two to jot down a phone number before ripping the paper loose and closing the gap between them slowly enough to present it to her.
"That will get you into contact with a business associate of mine. If you find yourself in any trouble with one of my kind... Simply call that number and inform the man on the other end of the line. He'll take care of the rest." He says before offering a smile and a wave of his fingers. "You have a wonderful evening Molly! Sleep well!"
Molly Toombs
He would have guessed that she was a martial arts instructor or a military careerwoman, and his confession of this had Molly raising her eyes in surprise and skepticism. He wouldn't expect a nurse to stand her ground like this! That is left alone. She could have gone on to tell him that you needed to have steely nerves and a strong stomach and a lot of patience to work in the emergency room during the swing shift, which was prime time for victims of violence to come through the doors. In the last month especially, for some reason she couldn't identify, things had gotten worse and their beds were full almost every night and she couldn't even find time to get herself a drink of water for hours at a time during her shifts.
If that didn't strengthen your resolve, she didn't know what would. But she let that go in favor of disengaging herself from this man and trying to bow her way out without treading on the man's good manners and want for conversation. She didn't want to piss him off and change his mind about leaving her unharmed that night.
She was about to try and cut in and wish him a good night, but the man was circling back around and sitting down nearby so he could be comfortable while he explained where he was coming from, and what terms he felt their encounter should have.
The fact that she knew his name, his face, and what he was posed a problem. He couldn't very well just let her go running around with that knowledge unchecked. At this point in the conversation Molly's lips pressed together and her heartbeat picked up faster, but she didn't say a word. She let him finish.
He said that he felt this could be balanced if they came to a mutually beneficial agreement with one another. Then he jotted down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She took it, glanced at the number he'd written, and held onto it without stashing it away anywhere. She wasn't carrying a purse or a clutch, so she had nowhere to put it but her bra, and she didn't think it would be most appropriate to dip her fingers down the front of her dress in front of someone who would literally eat her alive if tempted to do so.
He bade her goodnight, and she nodded slowly, cautiously, and turned to take a few steps away to leave. But she paused, and turned back to ask him a question in turn: "Bertram, I don't want to call on you if I'm gonna be looped into owing you a favor. So, I'm probably not going to call you at all. I want you to know that right out the gate. ....Are you gonna make me worry about you coming after me for that?"
Bertram Kohl
He took the time to glance down at the paper and then back up towards her, his eyes seeking out her own. "I am leaving you the number in case of emergency, and I'd advise you to keep it on hand, my kind can be..." He pauses a moment and takes in a slow and deep breath as he searches for the right word. His eyes drifting up into the sky for several beats of her heart, before letting them snap back to meet hers. "You will just have to trust me that there are those among my kind who you do not want to get a hold of you." He says before pointing his finger towards the paper.
"That number, right there, may one day be the only course of action yo have to avoid that fate." He says with a shrug of his shoulders. "That's your emergency contact, just in case..." He says with a little smile. "I didn't give it to you so we could casually chat over coffee." He adds a soft laugh.
"As far as anything else goes... I suppose we'll see about that. I just want you to be prepared for whatever you might find on the road ahead. It's an interesting new world you've found yourself taking part in. I'd hate to see you go to waste as little more than a late night snack." He adds with a nod of his head.
He was trying his best not to be directly threatening, but there was a seriousness in his tone that implied she would want to keep that number on hand... Just... In... Case.
"I'm keeping you, though, go on... Get yourself home! I'll make sure your date knows you're safe."
Molly Toombs
He dodged her question. He wouldn't tell her if she needed to worry about him coming for her later on. Instead, he just insisted that she keep that phone number because he felt strongly that she would need it.
His kind weren't nearly so generous as he was, after all, and he might end up being her ace in the hole if she found herself in some sort of trouble with his society. That's what she figured it was by now, by the way-- a society of vampires, not just errant disorganized monsters in the night. Why else would he be so curious to know who she had encountered already? Why else would he be so aware of the typical habits of his kind? They must spend plenty of time around one another, the vampires of the city. She assumed that they had some structure to their world behind that of the city they lived in. She wasn't very eager to know all about it, though.
So, when he urged her to leave a second time, she nodded to him with a look of confusion, conflict and caution smeared all over her face.
"Alright," she conceded finally, and added: "Thank you. Good night, Bertram."
And with that said she picked up the wine glass and entered back in to the gallery. Once inside she would be quick about finding her date, letting him know that she was feeling unwell and tired all at once and that she would like to go home. To err on the side of safety, even though their date was a clear bust that wouldn't be happening again, she accepted his offer to drive her home, knowing full well it was an offer he made only to be polite. She wasn't going to be seeing him again, after all, so what did it matter if she was taking advantage of a socially contracted offer? As long as it got her home safe.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Inquest - 8.22.2013 [Molly Solo][ST Interject by Joey]
Molly didn't fall asleep from the night before until about 7:30am, well past the point of the sun cresting the mountains and raining light down upon the city. She then drew the black-out curtains of her bedroom and fell into a fitful, restless sleep.
The night was filled with twisting dreamscapes that erred on the side of nightmare-ish. She was stuck in an unfamiliar part of the a gray backdrop of the city, pacing from one end of a five block space to another. She would encounter men with pocked faces and guns chasing her into an alley. She ran to a big boulder of a figure with a severely broken nose in his silhouette, but the instant she called for its attention and reached out for it, the figure would simply vanish.
Then there was the tall, lean man with the handsome face. He would smile and show sharp teeth, a too-strong hand grasped her arm and squeezed it tight. Then he turned into a billowing shape, like a sheet stretched into the wind, and enveloped her.
She woke with a start and panicked, realizing she was unable to feel or locate the arm that was squeezed in her dream. It was with a curse and a frustrated flop back into her sheets that she realized she'd fallen asleep with her arm pinned under her side and now she couldn't feel it.
Uncomfortable and ill-rested, Molly went about her morning routine.
------------
Once dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Molly took a backpack, pulled her bike down her apartment building's staircase, and set off on the town.
She had a printed list with her of different book stores and their addresses as they existed about town. During her day she visited four stores in different points of the city, mercifully three of which being close to the downtown area (or within reasonable bicycling distance anyways). Each of these shops were smaller book stores, locally owned rather than extensions of corporations.
She would find a chair in these shops and thumb her way through books dredged from the occult section. She was hunting for the oldest publications she could find. She dug through history sections rather than fiction, searched old folklore and superstitions of times long since past.
When something seemed like it was promising, or at least insightful and interesting (but most importantly, based on old stories: she didn't buy anything that observed the modern take of the myth she was researching) she would purchase it at the counter and stash it in her backpack. This happened twice-- three books at the first store, and one book at the last store.
-----
The day was long and stretched out, but well worth it in the end. The binge on research had Molly feeling precisely as wary as she had been last night when she found herself walking with a corpse (no, it wasn't a dream, she remembers it and the terror and the aftermath too clearly for it to have been anything but absolute reality), but accomplished. Her brain buzzed and swam with all of the information she'd soaked up, but having a background knowledge in Tales of Old gave her a little bit of confidence in what to brace herself against.
If Molly had to live in a world where Vampires might be a truth, then by the heavens she would be ready for it.
------------------------------------------------------
Kenna @ 2:55PM
[Intelligence 3 + Occult 1, WP Spent: So, what is there to know about these 'Vampires' anyways?]
Roll: 4 d10 TN8 (3, 3, 9, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP] VALID
Samael @ 2:56PM
Witnessed!
-----------------------
Tattered Cover is one of the handful of bookstores Molly comes across in her (re)search.
A stone structure with bones of wooden pillars and steel beams, antique (hear how they creak) floors and bookshelves, tables and chairs, a magnificent staircase connecting its two stories packed with books and walls with tall windows that fill it with a good dash of natural light. She binges on transposed and translated oral histories and myths, folklore and esoterica, separating the wheat from the chaff to get at the practical logic behind the magic they describe.
That magic? Of creatures that feed upon the sometimes-figurative and sometimes-literal lifeblood of the living. Sometimes the wisdom she wrings from the pages comes in drips, and other times in torrents too great to absorb in one sitting. The imagery is as ghastly, ghoulish, and bloody as she might have expected, of creatures painted from indulging in their choice (if only it was a choice) method of sustenance.
What fonts of darkness are reported to spawn them ranges from witchcraft to the excommunicated, from those with bodies violated by animals to possessed by spirits, and some of the myths count them as beings wholly outside the creation of man and woman as many religions understand it. The number of herbs and flowers though to ward off these entities, whatever their true nature, include mustard seed, garlic, hawthorn, roses borne in wild soil. Blessed items such as the crucifix or holy water are also included, and some legends say they are bound from sacred grounds, others that light refuses to touch them and telling it is why they hold no reflection or shadow, burn in the true sunlight of the Lord, and still others saying that mirrors might keep them away.
And their destruction? This must be something she is looking into, and means are many and varied. Staking the most common, various woods given greater or lesser approval by the writers. Mouth, stomach, though the heart seems to be the most common target for sharpened wood. Beheading, as with most living things, also seems an idea attributed with great merit.
All of this seems folklore and oral tradition until the 12th century, which may indicate that if these creatures are indeed real, they fed mainly (or most conspicuously) upon those uneducated and unable to write, because it is only then that recorded accounts become more common. Much of their weaknesses were further codified during the Spanish Inquisition: Beheading, staking, fire, sunlight, dismemberment, and a weakness for religious artifacts when wielded in their direction by those of the faith.
Then and onward during the supposed Renaissance and Age of Enlightenment reports become more frequent, vampires and werewolves the few creatures of folklore surviving the squashing of myth and legend in favor of science and logic. Historians most commonly point to rabies and other misunderstood diseases, as well as mass hysteria and self-fulfilling tests identifying the accused as vampiric.
Africa, Asia, even the Americas with its southern continent's blood gods and mythology, the stories are different, but have common threads that make the idea of this archetype almost universal amongst cultures.
But into the 18th and 19th centuries it finally begins to taper off, other than a marked resurgence in literature, works of fiction and drama, and later television and film. Thankfully for Molly she has avoided the rabid fans, young adults and not-so-young, frequenting the fiction and roleplaying sections.
Of course the occult and antique shelves have their own denizens.
Like that gentleman. The one in the light blue sport coat with suede elbow patches. The one in the cuffed beige shorts with brown brogue shoes – no socks thanks to the heat – that's what really makes him easy to pick out. A mop of unruly brown hair and round glasses that flash with a glare of light at him turning away.
Was he looking at her?
He definitely was.
And wasn't he...
At the mom and mom occult shop she'd just come from? Not in it, no, maybe across the street. That's right. He had definitely been at the coffee shop she'd stopped in before venturing into that den of eccentrics... And possible even at the much smaller (but very fruitful) antique book shop before that?
But it's now she finally picks him out.
And he was definitely just looking at her. That or the book in her hand, but it might as well be an extension of herself as Molly is finishing devouring it and heading with it toward the cashier.
--------------
The day had been interspersed with stops beyond the book stores alone. She had a coffee at the cafe next door to the first book store she'd stopped by, and paused for fifteen minutes so she could order and eat taco stand tacos. Another two, and then a pit stop at a smaller coffee shop in a different part of town for an iced coffee beverage and a croissant.
It was there that she vaguely remembered the man with the curly hair and shorts. He made her think of Angus Young in an off, bemused sort of way. She'd smiled politely, briefly when she passed by him on her way back out of the shop to head across the street to the last stop on her list. The gesture was forgettable, and she completely would have forgotten if she hadn't caught him staring.
It took her a while to notice, enough time that she'd finished her drink in one of the chairs at the book shop and browsed through the pages of an awkwardly sized book that she had laid in her lap. It was only as she closed the book, deciding to take it home for a full read through, and as she first looked up from the pages that she noticed. She stared back for a second or two, then frowned suspiciously and rose to her feet.
The book was tucked under her arm, and the empty plastic to-go cup that her drink had been in is carried along with her. She'd deposit it in the garbage can outside near the front door. She didn't stare the man down, but she did glance curiously toward him again when she reached the counter, before her attention was refocused on the woman that was working the register.
Unless interrupted, Molly would simply avoid coming into contact with the man. She didn't confront him there in the bookshop, didn't ask him if or why he was following her. Those things made you come across as paranoid and self-deluded anyways. It would cause a fuss in this book store, and she had full intentions of coming back here in the future if her conclusion of the day was true (well, if vampires are real now, who's to say the other things I saw in these books today aren't?). Goodness knew what other things she might have to come read up on later.
No, instead-- unless stopped or blocked in some way-- Molly made her way out the front door, tossed her cup away, and tucked the book away in her backpack beside her bicycle, which was secured to a lamp post near the curb.
The night was filled with twisting dreamscapes that erred on the side of nightmare-ish. She was stuck in an unfamiliar part of the a gray backdrop of the city, pacing from one end of a five block space to another. She would encounter men with pocked faces and guns chasing her into an alley. She ran to a big boulder of a figure with a severely broken nose in his silhouette, but the instant she called for its attention and reached out for it, the figure would simply vanish.
Then there was the tall, lean man with the handsome face. He would smile and show sharp teeth, a too-strong hand grasped her arm and squeezed it tight. Then he turned into a billowing shape, like a sheet stretched into the wind, and enveloped her.
She woke with a start and panicked, realizing she was unable to feel or locate the arm that was squeezed in her dream. It was with a curse and a frustrated flop back into her sheets that she realized she'd fallen asleep with her arm pinned under her side and now she couldn't feel it.
Uncomfortable and ill-rested, Molly went about her morning routine.
------------
Once dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Molly took a backpack, pulled her bike down her apartment building's staircase, and set off on the town.
She had a printed list with her of different book stores and their addresses as they existed about town. During her day she visited four stores in different points of the city, mercifully three of which being close to the downtown area (or within reasonable bicycling distance anyways). Each of these shops were smaller book stores, locally owned rather than extensions of corporations.
She would find a chair in these shops and thumb her way through books dredged from the occult section. She was hunting for the oldest publications she could find. She dug through history sections rather than fiction, searched old folklore and superstitions of times long since past.
When something seemed like it was promising, or at least insightful and interesting (but most importantly, based on old stories: she didn't buy anything that observed the modern take of the myth she was researching) she would purchase it at the counter and stash it in her backpack. This happened twice-- three books at the first store, and one book at the last store.
-----
The day was long and stretched out, but well worth it in the end. The binge on research had Molly feeling precisely as wary as she had been last night when she found herself walking with a corpse (no, it wasn't a dream, she remembers it and the terror and the aftermath too clearly for it to have been anything but absolute reality), but accomplished. Her brain buzzed and swam with all of the information she'd soaked up, but having a background knowledge in Tales of Old gave her a little bit of confidence in what to brace herself against.
If Molly had to live in a world where Vampires might be a truth, then by the heavens she would be ready for it.
------------------------------------------------------
Kenna @ 2:55PM
[Intelligence 3 + Occult 1, WP Spent: So, what is there to know about these 'Vampires' anyways?]
Roll: 4 d10 TN8 (3, 3, 9, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP] VALID
Samael @ 2:56PM
Witnessed!
-----------------------
Tattered Cover is one of the handful of bookstores Molly comes across in her (re)search.
A stone structure with bones of wooden pillars and steel beams, antique (hear how they creak) floors and bookshelves, tables and chairs, a magnificent staircase connecting its two stories packed with books and walls with tall windows that fill it with a good dash of natural light. She binges on transposed and translated oral histories and myths, folklore and esoterica, separating the wheat from the chaff to get at the practical logic behind the magic they describe.
That magic? Of creatures that feed upon the sometimes-figurative and sometimes-literal lifeblood of the living. Sometimes the wisdom she wrings from the pages comes in drips, and other times in torrents too great to absorb in one sitting. The imagery is as ghastly, ghoulish, and bloody as she might have expected, of creatures painted from indulging in their choice (if only it was a choice) method of sustenance.
What fonts of darkness are reported to spawn them ranges from witchcraft to the excommunicated, from those with bodies violated by animals to possessed by spirits, and some of the myths count them as beings wholly outside the creation of man and woman as many religions understand it. The number of herbs and flowers though to ward off these entities, whatever their true nature, include mustard seed, garlic, hawthorn, roses borne in wild soil. Blessed items such as the crucifix or holy water are also included, and some legends say they are bound from sacred grounds, others that light refuses to touch them and telling it is why they hold no reflection or shadow, burn in the true sunlight of the Lord, and still others saying that mirrors might keep them away.
And their destruction? This must be something she is looking into, and means are many and varied. Staking the most common, various woods given greater or lesser approval by the writers. Mouth, stomach, though the heart seems to be the most common target for sharpened wood. Beheading, as with most living things, also seems an idea attributed with great merit.
All of this seems folklore and oral tradition until the 12th century, which may indicate that if these creatures are indeed real, they fed mainly (or most conspicuously) upon those uneducated and unable to write, because it is only then that recorded accounts become more common. Much of their weaknesses were further codified during the Spanish Inquisition: Beheading, staking, fire, sunlight, dismemberment, and a weakness for religious artifacts when wielded in their direction by those of the faith.
Then and onward during the supposed Renaissance and Age of Enlightenment reports become more frequent, vampires and werewolves the few creatures of folklore surviving the squashing of myth and legend in favor of science and logic. Historians most commonly point to rabies and other misunderstood diseases, as well as mass hysteria and self-fulfilling tests identifying the accused as vampiric.
Africa, Asia, even the Americas with its southern continent's blood gods and mythology, the stories are different, but have common threads that make the idea of this archetype almost universal amongst cultures.
But into the 18th and 19th centuries it finally begins to taper off, other than a marked resurgence in literature, works of fiction and drama, and later television and film. Thankfully for Molly she has avoided the rabid fans, young adults and not-so-young, frequenting the fiction and roleplaying sections.
Of course the occult and antique shelves have their own denizens.
Like that gentleman. The one in the light blue sport coat with suede elbow patches. The one in the cuffed beige shorts with brown brogue shoes – no socks thanks to the heat – that's what really makes him easy to pick out. A mop of unruly brown hair and round glasses that flash with a glare of light at him turning away.
Was he looking at her?
He definitely was.
And wasn't he...
At the mom and mom occult shop she'd just come from? Not in it, no, maybe across the street. That's right. He had definitely been at the coffee shop she'd stopped in before venturing into that den of eccentrics... And possible even at the much smaller (but very fruitful) antique book shop before that?
But it's now she finally picks him out.
And he was definitely just looking at her. That or the book in her hand, but it might as well be an extension of herself as Molly is finishing devouring it and heading with it toward the cashier.
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The day had been interspersed with stops beyond the book stores alone. She had a coffee at the cafe next door to the first book store she'd stopped by, and paused for fifteen minutes so she could order and eat taco stand tacos. Another two, and then a pit stop at a smaller coffee shop in a different part of town for an iced coffee beverage and a croissant.
It was there that she vaguely remembered the man with the curly hair and shorts. He made her think of Angus Young in an off, bemused sort of way. She'd smiled politely, briefly when she passed by him on her way back out of the shop to head across the street to the last stop on her list. The gesture was forgettable, and she completely would have forgotten if she hadn't caught him staring.
It took her a while to notice, enough time that she'd finished her drink in one of the chairs at the book shop and browsed through the pages of an awkwardly sized book that she had laid in her lap. It was only as she closed the book, deciding to take it home for a full read through, and as she first looked up from the pages that she noticed. She stared back for a second or two, then frowned suspiciously and rose to her feet.
The book was tucked under her arm, and the empty plastic to-go cup that her drink had been in is carried along with her. She'd deposit it in the garbage can outside near the front door. She didn't stare the man down, but she did glance curiously toward him again when she reached the counter, before her attention was refocused on the woman that was working the register.
Unless interrupted, Molly would simply avoid coming into contact with the man. She didn't confront him there in the bookshop, didn't ask him if or why he was following her. Those things made you come across as paranoid and self-deluded anyways. It would cause a fuss in this book store, and she had full intentions of coming back here in the future if her conclusion of the day was true (well, if vampires are real now, who's to say the other things I saw in these books today aren't?). Goodness knew what other things she might have to come read up on later.
No, instead-- unless stopped or blocked in some way-- Molly made her way out the front door, tossed her cup away, and tucked the book away in her backpack beside her bicycle, which was secured to a lamp post near the curb.
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