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The Blame Game [30 Dec 2007|12:55am] "Another beer?" Darian cast a look at his surroundings and seriously considered it. The air smelled thick and sweet, choked up with the grease of barbecue chicken wings and fist-sized hamburgers and french fries. He had a feeling he was actually wearing the air now. A football game blared from the nearest of several plasma televisions. Male roars and congratulatory fists rose in correlation with a touchdown by the Dallas Cowboys. The waitresses wore orange shorts and white tanks and slouch socks. Two of them, he had given breast implants. Not surgically, of course. This was slumming. He exhaled heavily and moved to adjust his tie, only he wasn't wearing one. It left him fiddling uselessly with the collar of his polo shirt. When in Rome. Darian tipped up his beer mug and examined the empty bottom. "Why not." While there were precious few things Grace missed about being human, she had always enjoyed a good plate of chicken. It didn't taste right anymore, of course, but the truth was, no one who came to Hooters was really there for the wings. Parked on a stool almost directly beneath one of the high-definition televisions, the vampire pounded her fist on the bar as the Cowboys scored six more points, idly examining the tank top of the closest waitress while they set up for the field goal. Exactly who designed those things, Lockheed? Not that she was complaining. She ordered her fourth beer as the game switched over to a commercial, debating ordering a small plate of wings to go with it just for old times' sake. At least she didn't have to worry about the calories going straight to her thighs. A whoop from across the room drew her attention away from the ad for salad dressing that was now blaring out of the speakers, and Grace thought she had to be hallucinating when she spotted Darian fiddling with the collar of his shirt before studying the bottom of his own mug. She glanced at her watch, then at the wall calendar behind the bar. Was it the End of Days and no one had told her? She must not stare. She also must not laugh. Well, okay, maybe she could at least snicker. She flagged down the second bartender, tossed a twenty at him across the wooden surface. "For the guy at the end of the bar," she said, indicating the Dealmaker surreptitiously. "Tell him it's from a friend." "Here you go." The curly-haired waitress put a cold one in front of Darian. "It's paid for. Friend of yours." She smiled and squeezed her breasts together with her arms. "A friend of mine, huh?" Dubiously, the Dealmaker looked around the restaurant full of sweaty men. It was safe to say that Darian had no male friends. His only real charm was in arrogant flirting, a talent that wasn't doled out to same sex associates. His eyes found Grace at the bar. "I see her. I'll be over there." He indicated the vampire with a tipped head and got up. It was good to stand up. The ordeal with Atia (particularly the part where he renigged on a deal and abandoned his client for dead) left him worse for the wear, physically. For some reason, it always hit him in the legs first. He figured it was because limping was a blow to his confidence. Made it harder to get around. He had to go slower just to hide it. Darian navigated the tables and put his mug down next to Grace. "Paying me back for past slights? I hate to tell you, but you'll have to do better than Coors Light." ( Did You... Do That Thing? ) Eye for an Eye

When In Rome [06 Dec 2007|01:38pm] It was impossible to think around the commotion of the Ring. Of course, it wasn't the sort of place that people went to exercise their brains. People went to air dirtier habits, like putting money on whether a fighter would escape with all its parts intact... even fervently hoping they wouldn't. The combat continued until somebody died. It could get tacky, at times, when a pulse was discovered on an unconscious participant, and the opponent had to keep bludgeoning away. Darian was keeping a low profile. If the Overseer noticed the Dealmaker in attendance, he'd probably order an unpleasant removal. So he hung back near the exits, getting a feel for the hired security. He was supposed to pay them off and, with Grace's help, orchestrate a hostile takeover of the venue. Not tonight, but soon. Midway through the second match, he felt his phone vibrate. Darian stepped out on the concourse, where the jeering was muffled, and answered the call. It was Phillip, head concierge at the Bellagio and go-between for Darian and his clients. Plugging his open ear, Darian gave a listen to Phillip. His responses were loud and clipped, as was the case whenever a new client attempted to renege on payment. The distraction took him farther down the concourse, out of the way of spectators and the single vendor, who pedaled beer. She'd been running her hands along the crevices of the multi-verse, seeking something out. While it was not true that she was omnipotent, she did have her spies, her ways of gathering information. There was a particular spark she was after, a particular smell. Breathing deep, she allowed the odor to draw her forth, blocking out the tummult surrounding her as if it didn't exist. Regal. Imperious. Filthy. Warped. Atia. "A fine night for combat," she said to the impeccably-dressed man standing next to her, giving him a borderline disinterested look as she fell into step beside him. "Reminiscent of the Coliseum. The only thing that's changed is the year. Beasts will always fight." Her voice carried despite the finger he'd put in his ear, so she knew he heard her. Heard her down in his bones, in his guts, where the creature beyond the human facade lived. She was wearing a simple white tunic and leather sandals, her arms exposed to the night air. "You do not mind if I walk with you, do you?" A coy smile, followed by a touch to his arm. Lingering on the surface of his psyche before withdrawing. She was not without her resources, could likely do grievous harm to him should she so choose, but he'd succeeded in interfering with something she'd wanted done, no matter how briefly. It made her curious. "Most strange," the Corruptress remarked. "The girl struggled for a few moments, but she eventually succumbed. What I did not count on...was you." Darian stopped walking and pulled the phone away from his ear. From the small speaker, Phillip's voice could still be heard, asking Darian if he was there. He was no longer interested. He closed the device and put it in the inside pocket of his coat. ( You Must Be Atia ) Eye for an Eye

Prowling [20 Nov 2007|11:19pm] Bethany was still riding high on that wave of pleasure and adrenaline that had come with Atia's touch and that kiss, the very same one that had reached invisible hands deep inside her soul and pulled at the seams, opening the hole wider and farther so that darkness could overwhelm and suffocate it. She was passing people in the street, senses more attuned to them than they had been before. Everything was suddenly more intoxicating and she ached for every moment, wanting to dominate and possess, taste and devour, push the limits and slide further and faster into the darkness clawing at her. Her confidence was apparent, the way she turned heads and passed slow smiles at the wandering eyes. Vegas. She could feel its pulse like her own, beating beneath her feet and thrumming through her veins like the blood that kept her alive. Bethany was aimless, with only a vague idea of what she should do; she had never been one to follow anyone else's whim easily, after all. She touched strangers, invaded their space and didn't care, seeking out the beats of their hearts with her ears and fingers, challenging them to say or do something to tell her no. They never did. Her skin was glowing in the lights of the Vegas night, hair damp with sweat and body oozing a darkness that was part her own but part something else. It was only when she caught a familiar scent on the breeze that her footsteps stilled and she looked around, closing her eyes and turning her head to follow its movement on the air. ( In Films, Lovers... ) [Thread: Open to Bethany] **Possible Adult Content (Sexuality)*** 1 Deal |Eye for an Eye

Halloween Thread: Fetish Ball [01 Nov 2007|09:56pm] http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1242312.html 1 Deal |Eye for an Eye

[15 Oct 2007|11:50am] The Birthright Crew (Convention Panel Thread) http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1236779.html Eye for an Eye

Drink, Bash, Bitch, Ditch [06 Oct 2007|04:31pm] ( Not As Mauled As You ) 1 Deal |Eye for an Eye

Did That Just Happen? [03 Oct 2007|01:01am] Of all the no-name bars, he had to pick this one. That’s what Darian was thinking. It seemed an unfortunate turn of fate for a number of reasons. One, his client was late, and if things were going to run late, the Dealmaker’s impatient waiting could at least be done in style and not with peanuts grinding into oblivion underfoot. Two, there was a high-definition sports channel on the widescreen television, a fact he noticed very quickly upon getting there. Darian could’ve done without that, along with the raucous cheering in his ear. When an elbow jostled him in celebration of a touchdown, Darian almost choked the man. In all seriousness. He was on edge, annoyed to almost pre-Nevada levels. Tardiness from clients wasn’t something he was used to or would tolerate. Apparently he’d been too easygoing lately and word was spreading that Darian could be flexible. Mr. Maloney needed to come up with a very valid excuse before he arrived for their appointment. Something like, “I got hit by a car on the way.” Darian ordered a bourbon and stared at the high-definition close-up of a linebacker’s backside. Why, why would straight men pay for that kind of clarity? "Oh-h-h-h...!" It was a schoolgirl's giggle, flirtatious and full of drunken squiffle. The source of it being pushed against him, one palm spreading across his chest for balance. "Why, it's lovvvellllly Misssttttter Daaaarian!" And a girl it was, just not one who would have qualified for being of any legitimate school age. The usual link of spiritual shadows between them was gone, but there was no mistaking who that vision of white and black could be. Ellfeda... And she was as pissed as a newt. "Hhhhhave you met my wonderfluu... Wondfluffer... Wondlerfluff... My hhhappy new friend, Misssterrr Darrrina... Dariannn... Mmm, yes, that's your names... Name," she corrected herself, using a point of wavering finger to emphasis her point, "Isn't it, darrrling...?" Despite the smallish stature of the drunken demoness, ‘Mister Darrina’ was almost bowled over by the collision, and that was a feat considering his height. But the sudden weight slamming into him was only half the surprise, because the woman manhandling him was none other than Elfleda. Bride of Leviathan. Corruptress of Champions. Emissary to the Darkness. Yet she smelled (and felt) like a bar fly. “Yeh-gg-ugh!“ No, not an ancient demon language, but a noise of total astonishment from the Dealmaker. He recoiled and pushed her off, only to give his surroundings a suspicious look, as if searching for a hidden camera. In all the hundreds of years he had known her, there had always been a ‘look and get touched but don’t touch’ policy in place with ‘mother’, and discovering her breasts smashed up against his shoulder was a little like falling hands-first on a stove eye. No matter how tempting it was to cop a long-anticipated feel, there was also a mad scramble to put his hands anywhere but. He kept her at arm’s length. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He tugged on his coat to straighten up and kept looking around, pretending to be scandalized in case the big L was watching/listening. Moreover, what the hell was ‘wonder fluff‘? ( Drunken Exploits ) Eye for an Eye

On a Handshake [15 Sep 2007|08:41pm] Another night, another traffic jam. The cars in front of the Wynn were stacked bumper to bumper. This time, it wasn’t regular gridlock. A drunk woman had wandered out of the bar and, in some chemically-induced moment of impetuosity, pulled up her blouse to flash the world. It wasn’t an R-rated view. There was a bra. But a horny guy across the street wolf-whistled and made for the approach. He got picked off by a taxi cab before he reached the other side. So much for dying happy. Now it was real scene. Hysterical woman in tears. Dead, bloody guy in the road. Ambulance. Cop car. Tourists snapping pictures. Traffic blocked behind it. Darian was a rubber-necker. Who knew? Maybe she’d need a ticket out of jail before the night was done. "Damn. He almost made it, too. Gimme my hundred dollars.“ Grace held out her hand, palm upwards, and the other vampire she'd just made the bet with grudgingly handed her the money before taking off. What the hell, right? It was a busy street, so it had been a good enough bet to make. The dude had just moved too slow, that was all. She watched the cop approach the flasher lady with mild interest. Wondered how SuperBitch was faring in the county lock-up. Had herself a little chuckle before lighting a fresh smoke. Unlife was good. And getting better, because there was Darian, lurking around the edges of the scene. Grace threw up a hand in a wave, sidled over to the demon's corner of things. "Hi, there, sailor. Smell blood in the water?" ( Like Sharks Circling ) Eye for an Eye

A Meeting of Like Minds [14 Sep 2007|01:37am] Jill didn’t need a secretary. Two weeks since she put a shoe in her old secretary’s eye and fired her, and the attorney had never gotten more done. Client meetings, corporate mergers, three murder cases that never even made it to trial; Jill hadn’t felt this good about working for Wolfram & Hart since she first touched down in Las Vegas. The constant barrage of questions from the press was somewhat irritating – why did everyone with a notepad and a press credential assume Wolfram & Hart had anything to do with a Nevada Congressman accused of running an international child prostitution ring? Okay, some nutjob in Washington might’ve been pedaling 10-year-old boys into the country for all sorts of unmentionable things … so what? No way would Jill and the firm touch this. Yeah, it was despicable and evil, but … bad for public image, worse for the bottom line. Burning cigarette in the ash tray, Jill was in the zone, typing furiously at her keyboard, drafting a proposal for a merger between a Chinese pharmaceutical company and one of America’s leading tobacco producers. Normally this sort of thing wasn’t her forte, but with a shortage of clients to keep out of jail, Jill needed something to do. What better way to stay productive than to help two companies notorious for killing people grow larger and more financially stable? If walls could talk, the ones cubing Jillian’s office might give her a heads-up now, lest she lose hers. It had been an ugly incident. Two supernatural entities -- one an angel, one a demon -- got past Wolfram and Hart security and destroyed the so-called sanctity of the building in a reign of gunfire. They stole a sword. Lawyers, paralegals, short-skirted girls answering the phones, and anyone else that got in the way were shot down or removed in other ways. Like being flung off the roof. Or having their heads cut off. The very desk that Jill typed on received a gruesome souvenir from the raid. Jill hadn’t seemed to care much. In fact, most of those who survived merely saw it as routine housecleaning. A way to skip a few rungs on the corporate ladder. It worked out well. Darian, the demon in the equation, had made a truce with the law firm through Elise Shelby. So this time when he came for a visit, he did so through the front door. He wandered around. He made certain none of the doors carried the name Jason Toren again. That might’ve called for another ass-kicking. At Jillian’s door he stopped with the hazy memory of having been there before and done something decidedly vicious. He rapped his knuckles. Finishing up the last sentence on the proposal, Jill clicked on “Save” then “Print” before standing and moving to the all-in-one big-ass machine she had in the back corner. The one that printed her documents, made copies, faxed them to other offices – even if said office was in Quor’toth – and probably made a kickass dry martini at the end of the day. Jill reminded herself to find out, come time to go home. The knock on the door startled her a bit, but her pale face bent into a wicked smile before grabbing the piece of paper the printer spit out, walking back to her desk. “It’s open,” she called out as she sat back in her rather lavish leather swivel chair. One of the finer perks of being a Wolfram & Hart employee. Darian turned the knob and went in. “It was last time as well,” he remembered off-handedly. He went far enough inside to shut the door behind him, and then he stood there in his Italian suit, taking silent stock of the immaculate office. There were minimal decorations. Orderly stacks of files at corners on the expensive desk. Right angles. As far as offices went, his probably would’ve looked similar, were he the sort of person to need a job. Or paperwork. The Dealmaker’s eyes took time getting to Ms. Andersen in her chair. The thing was massive, and it might’ve dwarfed the dark-haired lawyer if she hadn’t so aggressively sat it into submission. He pegged her as a control freak; the kind of woman who owned her surroundings as much as owned herself. Typical Wolfram and Hart fare. “You’ve repainted,” he observed, indicating the wall. “Kinda had to,” she said with an arched brow at this well-dressed newcomer. “Was the only way to get the blood stains to disappear.” Of all the ways to return to the office … a fucking disembodied head sitting on her desk, blood oozing onto it and the carpet below. Even blood on the walls, for some reason. New carpet, new paint job… new finish on the desk; the only thing from her old office that never left was the chair, which miraculously came away unscathed. The lawyer reached across her desk, rearranging the faded Baltimore Orioles baseball cap that sat on the edge. The orange bill wasn’t quite facing straight ahead, and seeing as how that was the only memory of her childhood she enjoyed, Jill wanted to make sure it look good. Giving the man standing in her office a once-over – complete with self-approving nod and a half-smile – Jill decided it was time to drop matters of interior design. “Can I help you?” she asked in a more-pleasant-than-usual tone. ( Get Me My Lawyer ) Eye for an Eye

One Hell of a Coincidence [05 Sep 2007|11:32pm] Well, at least he'd gotten a decent jacket out of the whole stupid shopping trip. A man couldn't go wrong with a good leather jacket. Grace had cited personal business that night, so she'd left Reuben to his own devices. He'd decided to spend some time wandering the ground of the Wynn, sniffing out what he could see for himself. The last time he'd been this far west, Las Vegas hadn't been this loud or this glittery, but that had been... when? At least a decade or two, but now that he was reaching his first hundred-year mark, time was all starting to bleed together. He had heard that it had a tendency to do that after a while. The vampire was currently wandering the floor of the casino, and he'd stopped to watch the roulette wheel spin as a mortal tourist pushed forth a small pile of chips. "Seventeen black," the too-eager man said, mopping sweat off of his forehead with a cloth before picking up his drink. Reuben watched, decided to at least try and blend in. Drinking wasn't his thing, but he could always go for a round of cards. Darian rolled his eyes. It was possible to be ashamed of a client. He stood behind the sweaty patron with his arms folded like some arrogant benefactor, offering advice here and there, thumbing his lip when he concentrated. Despite a relatively cool outer appearance, his inner monologue did a mantra whenever Henry Blackard pushed his chips. Christ, don’t blow your wad in front of the crowd, you plebian. Darian cleared his throat. “Pull yourself together,” he mumbled in the gambler’s ear and stepped back again. The demon did a visual scan of those nearest, in case anyone should question his interference. Tourist. Enthusiast. Tourist. Vampire. He studied the latter with detached interest and rocked on his shoes. The clickety-clickety-clickety of the little white ball as it danced across the wheel was almost like a pulse in itself as Reuben moved closer to the table. He listened to the heartbeats that surrounded him amidst the quiet chatter and the labored breathing of the guy with the flop-sweat pouring off of his brow. Humans were an animal unto themselves when they got desperate, and he wondered how much the fellow had been losing. A lot, from the looks of it and the way his hands were shaking, like a drunk that couldn't wait for that first drink. He felt someone's attention on him after a moment, and he looked up from the wheel to see a tall man in a suit standing next to Flop Sweat. Normally he wouldn't have given the other man a second glance, but this one wasn't sweating at all, despite the close quarters at the table. Not a drop. Reuben coughed quietly, took a discreet sniff at the air through the cigarette smoke. Demon? Possibly. Life just got funnier and funnier. He returned that mildly interested look with a polite 'how do?' nod, then went back to look at the game in progress just as the fickle white ball made a decision and landed in one of the little slots. "Red forty-six," the man at the head of the table said. "Red forty-six. Thank you for playing, the next round will begin shortly." Reuben gave Flop Sweat a distantly sympathetic look as his chips were gathered up and taken away from him. Tough luck. Henry Blackard, or ‘Flop Sweat’, pushed off the table, disgusted at the loss. He turned around and shot Darian an accusatory look. “Thanks for nothing,” he hissed, “I ought to ask for a refund. Man was that guy wrong about you.” He shifted away from the other gamblers and took out that handkerchief. It was sopping wet, no chance of soaking up the perspiration that dripped off his nose like a leaky faucet. The Dealmaker pinched the back of his client’s neck and escorted him farther away. Their backs were turned to the vampire. “Did you actually think I'd let you win that round? You’re disgusting.” He removed a cloth from his coat and passed it over. “If you want to be a con artist, start looking the part.” He took a greenback from his pocket and passed it over. “Do yourself a favor and get a drink. Something with ice in it.” Darian pushed Blackard in the direction of the bar and turned back around, nice and slow. It would’ve been a flawless send-off, had he not wiped his palm on his trousers. ( Someone in Common ) Eye for an Eye

Inked [14 Jul 2007|07:07pm] It was a late night on the Las Vegas strip and usually the tattoo parlor was a bustling shop, full of eclectic people, but it was quiet. Quiet all except for the steady *click, clack* of stiletto heels that carried the slender blonde through the shop, passing by the sheets of tattoos scattered on the walls. Bethany didn't know what she wanted but she knew it had to mean something, matter to her in some way, but she hadn't decided on anything yet. There was a certain appeal to a rose with thorns as Bethany had lived and almost died by the same illusion. Not that she cared, it was better to have a few surprises up your sleeve than none at all. Wasn't her fault if people got pricked and bled.  She opened the book displayed on the counter and tipped her head to one side as she opened it, turning the pages over and over as she tried to find one she felt would be perfect. It had to be perfect; anything else was unacceptable. "See anything?" She asked, pausing on a page with roses and letting her fingertips trace them slowly. “Not yet.” He was no art critic and certainly not the type to tattoo his skin (forever held an entirely new meaning when one might live forever), but it seemed that whatever the Slayer chose from the pages of flash ought to be as beautiful as the woman it’d be drawn upon. That would be a tall order to fill. Darian had no particular attachment to flowers, but the choice of a rose with thorns made sense for Bethany. The reason he leaned over the books and perused the posters, too, was that there was a world of difference between a rose tattooed on a chubby woman’s ankle or breast and the kind of elegant sketch she deserved. “This is better.” He indicated an ornate drawing of thorny vines, meant to wrap along some part of the body before bursting into full color at its pinnacle. ( In the Back Room ) ( What's Kept You Busy? ) ( Vacation? ) Eye for an Eye

Something Up the Sleeve [11 Jul 2007|12:59pm] Grace was seldom one for long-term planning. Getting away with things was one of her strong points; planning said things in advance was not. But maybe it was time for her to start trying. The restaurant was mid-level upscale, and the vampire had a table to herself near the back. Not that she had any need for solid food, but they also had a better than average bar, and she had a glass of good whiskey sitting nearby. A black notebook was open in front of her, and she looked almost studious as she made the occasional note on the pages within. To ask anyone who knew her, they'd probably say they'd never seen her more still. Maybe she should call Levi in a couple of days, see how Blanchard was doing. Just to keep tabs on the bitch until everything came crashing down on her head, that was. She wondered if it would make the papers. A bad cop was big news, especially a crooked detective. Yeah, there would definitely be headlines. "Tough luck, Samantha," she murmured, lifting her glass in a toast to the absent Slayer. "Looks like you finally bit off way more than you can chew." “Who’s chewing whom?” Darian dropped in and took the chair across from Grace in an unorthodox way. He sat backwards on it. His tie was missing, which put him in the rare position of being under dress code. What’s more, he wasn’t intoxicated in the least. What the Dealmaker was, was full of himself. Having gotten away with the time-swamp incident unscathed, and stolen Elfleda’s planted stone right beneath the nose of anyone who cared to spy on such things, he was in fine spirits. No repercussions. No collateral damage. Yet. But he’d deal with ‘yet’ when it came to fruition and not before. The demon caught a waiter’s attention with his fingers and signaled to the vampire’s glass, indicating he’d have one of the same. "Nobody yet, although I've thought about it. She'd be too much of a pain in the ass to keep around forever, though. I'd end up staking her myself." Grace closed the notebook and put it aside, picking up her glass. She eyed Darian across the table, noted the missing tie. "Did you leave somethin' behind when you left the house this morning?" she asked, indicating the lack of the customary accessory. "Or are you just givin' the casual look a shot?" Could she smoke in here without getting the stink-eye from the staff? She looked around for a 'No Smoking' sign and didn't see one, took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her shirt pocket to set them near her glass. She'd give it a try after she got her next refill. "And you seem to be in a good mood. What'd you do, run over a nun tonight?" Darian tugged his open collar and reflected on the loose attitude that he presented. “I’m in disguise.” He reached across to the black notebook she owned, not picking it up and examining it but giving the spine a sharp tap. “Apparently you are, too. What’s it to be, Biology homework?” ( Mischief in the Air ) Eye for an Eye

The Rock In His Pocket [05 Jul 2007|06:32pm] For all his cool demeanor and apathetic posturing, Darian was still a moth to a flame. Sometimes the flame that attracted him belonged to a blonde haired beauty named Bethany, whom he loved, and who had a habit of dealing hurt in the same ferociously callous way she dealt blows in a fight. Other times he liked the heat of hard-won business-- the gamble taken with a dangerous client, the tremendous pay-off it could all be when it worked in his favor. Darian was even the sort of masochist who liked the pain of getting it wrong. It infuriated him, but he always retaliated. He was born to be on top. The burn he liked best was Elfleda’s displeasure. Like most older entities, he understood the vast reach ‘mother’ had into the demon world. At times it seemed as if there was no limit, though Darian knew it to be untrue. Not from personal experience, of course. But even Elfleda failed, and Leviathan’s wrath could be unaffected by favoritism. When he grew bored and the opportunity presented itself, Darian liked sending her a message. Demons, too, had free will. They could stretch their legs a bit. Walk inside the lines when it suited them, and outside when they felt reckless. Every creature answered to something, received its birth and its power from something, but like children demons too could rebel. Just to prove a point. ‘I know what you want me to do. Here’s what I want to do. How do you like me now?’ The temporary jolly was worth a metaphysical spanking. After all, a spanking was all it tended to be. The Dealmaker was better use to Leviathan alive than vanquished. He’d even bet on it. Darian waltzed into the second-floor office of Victoria Foxworth with a smile on his face. It was easily done. He walked up the stairs, elevating himself above the starry-eyed crowd in the banquet hall, above the demons bathing in the pool and the roleplayers acting out their sadistic dances, continued past the storage rooms full of props and costuming, and literally strolled through the office door. The room was empty. Darkened. But shadows didn’t hide the stone from the demon. Leah had told him just where to find it. The stone was black, like the Corruptress. It could’ve been a chip off the woman’s heart, for all he knew. It only mattered that it was part of her... Part of her scheme, part of her plan, in a way he couldn’t foresee and didn’t care to try. After all, lending Elfleda a hand had never netted him much more than a condescending pat on the head. She was the cock tease of the underworld. Promised much. Never delivered. Let her absorb the cost of this loss, whatever it might be. Darian slipped the stone into his pocket and took his leave. It never hurt to remind her that ‘children’, when ignored, could seek attention in very negative ways. Eye for an Eye

Removing the Stone [22 Jun 2007|07:56pm] Leah's heels clicked against the stone pavers, her hair done up and wearing one of her more elegant dresses as she weaved through the maze of tables, chairs, and people in search of a certain demon that could be the answer to her recent dilemma.  Darian's smarmy assistant, Phillip, had told her that the demon would be at this restaurant at this time.  The little fucker had even tried to cop a feel when the hybrid, still somewhat hung over from the activities of the night before, had come looking for the Dealmaker.   Phillip had a broken foot from where her heel had expertly landed, and was on Leah's list of men to drain down to their last bit of energy when the opportunity arose.  She was the one who decided who touched her, no matter how good looking the guy was. She spotted the Dealmaker sitting at a back table, impeccably dressed as always without a hair out of place, a cup of some beverage at his lips.  Struck by the image, Leah suddenly felt as if she'd fallen into a Mafia movie: the needy client approaching the Don in supplication.  Be my friend...Godfather? "Good evening Darian, may I join you?" Leah asked as she slid into the seat opposite the demon.  She needed his help to get out of the mess she'd put herself in, and wasn't going to leave until she got it. Across from her, Darian waxed sardonic. “It seems you already have.” It wasn’t as if he minded the mild intrusion of the half-succubus. She, like the other women with whom he spent occasional time, had something unique or mysterious about her. In Leah’s case, an ancient heritage based in demon lore made her interesting to him. He put the cup down with precision-- each time exactly into the ring it had occupied before. Once his hands were free, he clasped them loosely on the table. She looked lovely. At other times, she’d been in costume in his presence or bundled for winter weather. There was a noticeable bronzing on her shoulders that didn’t appear manufactured. He noticed it and his mouth quirked. “Nice tan, by the way. You must’ve taken some vacation.” "Funny you should mention it," Leah tilted her head and eyed Darian speculatively; he certainly would have had the power to send Vicky and her back in time, from what she'd heard about him. "I did have a little unplanned Hawaiian vacation...1941 Hawaii."  The trauma of the attack on Pearl Harbor had faded somewhat, and she preferred to focus on the fun times she and the then human Vicky had enjoyed while there.  "I've made a point to keep it up, and expand it a bit since I've come back...authorities could be so picky about what you wore or didn't wear when trying to get a tan.  You would think being an island paradise that they would be more open about that sort of thing but..." the hybrid shrugged and then her expression sobered. ( Let's Get Down to Brass Tax ) ( More Bark Than Bite ) [Thread: Open to Leah and Darian] 1 Deal |Eye for an Eye

Treasure Island [19 Jun 2007|04:29pm] Come fly with me, let’s fly let’s fly away If you can use, some exotic booze There’s a bar in far Bombay Come fly with me, we’ll fly we’ll fly away She wasn't in Kansas anymore. Thank fuck. That was such a mistake. As she was wont to do, Deanna tended to follow (a) her unbeating heart, (b) her momentary obsessions, and (c) the wind. She'd heard rumor of a newly called slayer kicking serious ass in America's heartland and decided to visit. What she discovered was a lot of corn, some wheat, and a shitload of people mired in the nineteen sixties, both in terms of fashion sense and moral sensibility. It was almost as bad as Mormon country. Not that'd she know about that. Oh hell no. The redhead would never step foot in Utah. Not again, at any rate. Come fly with me, let’s float down to Peru In llama land, there’s a one man band And he’ll toot his flute for you Come fly with me, we’ll float down in the blue Her first night back in the city of sin, the vampire decided to re-immerse herself in proper culture. And skimpy outfits. She poached the tickets for Mystère from her early evening snack (and then upgraded the balcony seats for orchestra via a quick bathroom encounter, poor girl suffering with that sudden bout of anemia) and lost herself in the spectacle. Aerial high bars, Chinese poles, bungee. And Clowns. Shudder. There had to be clowns. Once I get you up there, where the air is rarefied We’ll just glide, starry eyed Once I get you up there, I’ll be holding you so near You may hear, angels cheer - because were together As the curtain fell on the last moments at Treasure Island, Deanna made her way through the throng and out the doors, around back to the stage door. To pay her respects and thanks. And to give a little payback to a fear she'd yet to master. One less clown in the world was a good thing, yes? Weather wise it’s such a lovely day You just say the words, and we’ll beat the birds Down to Acapulco bay It’s perfect, for a flying honeymoon - they say Come fly with me, we’ll fly we’ll fly away Out back dancers puffed at shared cigarettes, still in outlandish costume and with the flush of performance on their pink splotched skin. They smelled of sweat-drenched nylons and hairspray and cake makeup. What looked otherworldly onstage loomed garish under orange streetlamp and by the banality of city dumpsters and employee parking. Dancers with their camaraderie of full-mouthed kisses and backstage, nude impropriety noticed the intrusion of others but were unlikely to comment upon it, other than by eye. Under a halo of rising smoke and a din of post-production chatter, they glanced openly at the performer who had gone to speak with a man in a suit. He was an audience member wanting an encore, maybe. Or the mysterious boyfriend behind Gabrietta’s slick, black Benz. Whatever the case, the encounter finished amiably. The door banged open and shut. Three went in. One came out in red nose and ruffled collar. Lit up a smoke. ( Send in the Clowns ) ( And the... Transexuals? ) [Thread: Open to Deanna and Darian] 1 Deal |Eye for an Eye

[17 May 2007|10:41pm] Test post only. Eye for an Eye

[03 May 2007|01:08pm] The marble floor that led along the corridor to Darian’s apartment grew slicker by the second. Two pairs of feet, one bare and the other in shoes, slipped and slid in drops of blood that spread like ink blots when they landed. There were two types of blood – one human, one demon – though they looked the same. Darian made a valiant effort of holding himself up, but critical to the success of it was Bethany. Until the bullet came out, he’d be in dire straits. The ashen way he looked was proof enough. The red spray that accompanied each cough was almost overkill. “Maybe… we should’ve done this from the dumpster.” The sentence was strange, halting in some places and rushed in others. He pinned a code into the door and let them into the cold living room. Bethany breathed hard as she held and supported Darian as much as she was able to. The amount of blood pouring from that wound was worrying; she'd never seen him bleed so much. "I'll take your apartment over that dumpster any day." Bethany tightened the hold she had on Darian's waist. She flicked her tongue out across her lower lip and swallowed away the dry, scratchy feeling on the back of her throat. She physically shivered as they entered Darian's apartment before suppressing it and recalling from memory in which direction Darian's couch happened to be. Hopefully he hadn't moved it. Luckily, Darian wasn’t much for home décor. It hadn’t gone anywhere. It was dark inside, so the only pieces of evidence that he landed on it were the loud sigh of a leather cushion under his weight and the bitten back grunt of pain. “Under normal circumstance—mm… you’d be… preaching to the choir,” said Darian, ready to shut his eyes again, this time for real. Only that would be a mistake. “Get something sharp,” he added, probably unnecessarily. At this point, he didn’t care if it was a letter opener. ( Out With the Bullet ) ( Self-Inflicted Pain ) ( Demons to Rest ) ( The Woman on the Pedestal (Adult Content: Sexuality) ) Eye for an Eye

Caged [26 Apr 2007|07:51pm] Las Vegas. City of the great gamble. City of bright lights. Greed, power, glory, fame. Innocent fun that intermingled with and submerged into the tawdriest affairs. It was a city with the devil at its heart. Some people got a fix at the poker tables; Others in nightclubs or bars; Some got it when curtains parted on sequined dancers with shimmering breasts and feathered headdresses. Regardless of how and where a person got their excitement, the flavor of it had changed in recent years. A veil of gentility had descended upon the Strip. It wasn’t that the sin had left the city. It was that affordable had gone to extravagant. Blatant had gone behind closed doors. Some felt that the city’s greatest thrills just weren’t accessible to the common man anymore... the man who wasn’t VIP. They should’ve known better. The truth was that Las Vegas’s cheapest thrills, its dirtiest thrills, couldn’t be found in the tourist books. One had to go underneath the glitz, to where the action hadn‘t been neutered by local law and the declining power of the Vegas mobster, to where the common man could still get a taste of guts and glory at the Coliseum before going home to his civilized life. Literally. It happened late at night, in a split-level warehouse on the unfortunate side of town. Crime, corruption, and delicious sadism were commonplace there, out in the open where ‘everyman’ could see it. What made the Ring unusual was how the opposite was also true. Sometimes there were awe-inspiring acts of bravery. Of lives given up in the service of others. Of redemption. Here’s how it worked. No one knew the Overseer’s identity, but they had set up a fight club with a modern day twist. A week before an event, word would leak onto the streets that the Ring would be open. Those with an ear to the ground would hear that the Overseer was looking for Bait. Bait could be anyone. Human victims snatched from their hotel beds, vampires nabbed in the middle of a late-night snack... Sometimes it might be more intentional. Say, a certain demon or human personality who had a contract taken out on their lives. After Bait was secured, their descriptions would leak onto the streets. Then it was up to their defenders or betrayers to sign themselves up to fight, or pay someone to do the fighting for them. On the night of the fight, spectators crowded warehouse bleachers. They got a look at the contestants and placed bets on who might triumph. But that wasn’t where the gamble ended. The victor got to choose whether Bait would live or die... And how. Often the spectators waged money on those odds, too. It was seedy. It was a disgrace. It was infamous in several counties and unbothered by law enforcement or politicians. It happened under the world’s nose and no one save the Bait seemed to mind. Some, very rarely, even offered themselves up for the live entertainment, seeking the rush of adrenaline and the certainty of control over one's life. ( For the Rush ) ( Breaking the Rules ) ( Round 2... Fight ) ( To the Winner, the Spoils ) Eye for an Eye

Schemes [10 Apr 2007|09:57pm] With Mandalay Bay booked to capacity, one might guess -- quite accurately -- that its staff and management had their hands full behind the scenes. It was a virtual melee making sure that each guest was satisfied with the unique experience promised to them when credit cards gave up their account numbers in exchange for a high-class Vegas experience. Meanwhile, in the dining room of its ultra-chic establishment called Aureole, the night felt young and the wine ran freely. Its stark decor and towering glass-and-steel repository of bottles made the place a tribute to the sleek elegance and extravagant cool that could be found so near to the blatant tourism of the slots. It was the sort of place where people spoke in intimate murmurs and women’s heels tapped sensual promise against the floors. In the midst of it, Darian stood with his hands in pockets, and he watched the catlike rappelling of a staff member inside the wine tower as she searched for a particular wine bottle. That he stared didn’t bother him. Harness aside, he had a magnificent view of her ass. Perhaps part of the reason for meeting in such a place, was simply the excuse to interject a smattering of sexual innuendo into the invitation. If nothing else, the venue's name would have appealed to Erato's sense of humor. Upon her arrival, of course, the brunette was blessed in the guise of any other two-legged human female, even if she was anything but. Quite how she managed to achieve it was something of a mystery. Was it a mere optical illusion or a genuine product of some physical transformation? On the other hand, did it even matter, when she could wear dresses like that...? Her conversation with the vampire, Deanna, had thrown up a most interesting set of clues. It seemed that helping to save Star Tomlin's life had certain benefits after all, and the Lamia had resolved to visit the young woman again, one of these days. But not before her business here was done. "Darian..." Greeting him with a polished smile, Erato held out hand in an appeal to his sense of gentlemanly formality. He might not care much for humanity, but she was aware he was not averse to indulging in courtship rituals typically attributed to his masculine guise. "So glad you could make it." Darian took her hand and indulged his curiosity by looking over his arrived companion. He allowed himself to pay particular attention to her legs, the absence of snakelike tail chiefly upon his mind. Erato’s beauty was obvious. But just what physiology her legs climbed towards beneath that dress? A mystery entirely. At times he wondered if not knowing was why she held sex appeal. ( The Deal With Roberta Slesinger ) ( Shifting Priorities ) Eye for an Eye

Masks [05 Mar 2007|07:39pm] In Las Vegas, life existed in extremes. The decadent and the destitute. The dazzling performers and their envious audiences. The dabbling tourists and the die-hard residents. Brilliant neon lights against a midnight desert sky. Not to be excluded from comparison? The temperature differential. One month earlier snow covered the ground, but now the afternoons blazed above 80 degrees only to fall into chilly nights. Outside the Bellagio resort and overlooking the fountains, a crowd milled about. They were a jumble of the aforementioned personality types. All had gathered for an outdoor gala some organization or another had pulled together. The benefit featured the city’s finest performing artists, and the proceeds went towards rebuilding efforts for the Strip. Generous donors mingled with spectators who had come for the entertainment. Their plastic goblets were filled with champagne or wine or soda or juice. They huddled in shawls or threadbare sweaters, light jackets or windbreakers, and turned their faces from the fountains whenever a hard breeze kicked up a spray. Darian wasn’t a benefactor or a fan of the arts, though he occasionally pretended to be. At the moment, he stood on the outskirts of a dinner tent. Inside, elegant table clothes lifted and fluttered like short skirts on women. The waitstaff moved quickly to capture toppling bud vases. Crystal shattered in a corner. People looked. Bethany Richards had been absent from all kinds of social events, including the ones that happened during her return to Vegas. She'd been adjusting to life back under the bright lights and finding her feet. Of course, she was more than aware of what attending public events could do for one's reputation, especially in Vegas where pretense and facade were all the things that mattered. She'd made a choice: to go out, face the world, and look damn good while doing it. Black was the color of choice for the dress she wore (it covered enough to hide her thin frame), long heels accentuated the legs she'd always been proud of and confidence had her carrying them both with style. What people saw and what people knew were two different things and Bethany always believed in giving a flawless impression despite the fact her hands trembled sometimes and her heart raced when she felt... suffocated.  Currently she'd spoken to five businessmen and managed to keep their attention from the scar on her face by what she knew and how she talked. She'd always believed her physical appearance to be one of her finer qualities but with it now marred with a memory she would rather be rid of, all she could do was make the best of what she had. Sipping at her glass she left an imprint of her lips behind before settling it on a passing tray and excusing herself from the group she'd been talking to. The waiter’s tray was full to overflowing. Once the statuesque blonde placed her glass on the edge of it, he made a break for the tent. He weaved through the crowd with the grace of a dancer, and in this city he might’ve actually have been one, when he wasn’t moonlighting for a catering company. At the entrance to the canvas dome, he sidestepped Darian and went to deposit the dirty dishes. ( Getting the Drop ) ( The Appeal of the Familiar ) Eye for an Eye

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