Recruitment - PM Only

[Freddo (DELETED 7766)]

OOC - Fredrik is on the hunt for blood donors, and as such, I want to ensure whoever joins is the right fit for a working alliance. Please message me if interested.

Hunger, unlike any other, brought out the hunter in him. Fredrik stroked his throat as he contemplated the club’s patrons. He manipulated the tumbler with his opposite hand, watered-down whiskey slowly swishing about the glass. He’d ordered the drink twenty minutes ago and had barely touched it. Alcohol was not rich enough to quench this thirst.

What he sought was stronger than any drug he’d ever experienced. His veins felt hollow without the thrum of the vampire blood coursing through them. He felt uncharacteristically weak, though whatever strength he’d felt until earlier today had been borrowed, fleeting.

The hand at his throat steadily slid upwards, fingers curling beneath his chin. His elbow slid across the tacky surface of the countertop when he shifted his weight forward, heel hooking into the stool beneath him. There was an air of ennui about him, his styled hair and tailored suit at odds with the unrefined décor. It was the first time he frequented this particular establishment, having been lured here by a rumour that some of the regulars shared his interest.

Fredrik was under no illusion of that he’d succeed. There was little doubt that the vampires who ventured into a place like this were on the hunt themselves. The chances of him finding himself a willing partner for the evening was scarce, but no scarcer than if he’d kept to his usual spots.

Dropping his hand to the countertop, he lifted the glass to his mouth. The taste of warmed, watery whiskey disgusted him. Setting the tumbler back down, he turned his attention from the crowds onto the staff, and raised two fingers to catch a bartender’s attention before tapping the rim of his glass. Little did he know that he’d be left hanging.

[Jameson Dade]

Jameson had observed, in his limited and unsophisticated experience, that one could tell a lot about a club based on the way people were dancing inside. The music was one thing, but music could move disrhythmic to the pulse of the building; it created the foundation for a vibe, but didn't give it life. People were the organic ingredient that pumped vitality into any scene. At a place where singles were desperate for attention (and who hadn't yet discovered tinder or grindr), the dancing was wild and frenzied. Young bodies moved with the intensity derived from libido. Other clubs hosted different patterns: the square dance, the rave, the frantic ecstasy fueled, hopeless pounding of feet.

This club was unique in name alone. Bodies were languid in motion. The music itself was slow to match. Every movement was deliberate, like people had been given downers as soon as they stepped through the door. Valium and a little wrist stamp. It was his scene in every sense of the word. The people were the slow, and unconcerned, who were happily unburdened by collegiate reality. The atmosphere was thick with narcotic haze. There were vampires. There were humans. Jay had never really learned the distinction.

He needed something though. He wasn't there to contemplate music or dancing, or existence - all of that was very self-indulgent, and what he wanted was so much less cerebral. He wanted to feed his thirst for oblivion and self-destruction. He wanted to get some human high and drink from them until his belly hurt and red syrup clung to his chin, and he couldn't remember his own name. He'd have done it at the Handle Bar, but Ven wouldn't have liked it. There were rules against messing with the human patrons. Not that he intended to do lasting harm, but impulse control wasn't his strong suit. He had on his cuts anyway, to make it clear he was a Night Lords prospect.

He hadn't dressed up. A seafoam green hoodie was under his black leather vest. There were frayed rope chords that hung about halfway down, and HRU was printed on the front. Anyone who got a good look at him would think he was a college student. He could have passed for one with the constant tired look to his eyes. He had deep bags that didn't want to go away, and if one were to look closely at his nails, they had grime under them he hadn't considered cleaning out just yet. In life, his teeth had been fucked up, courtesy of meth. But that was another life. He wore worn in jeans and patchwork Chuck Taylors which had once been mint green, but which he had stitched triangles of charcoal grey, cerulean, and mustard yellow onto. He'd used thick red thread, and they looked like mini-Frankensteins.

The idea behind going out to eat was pretty simple. He just had to select someone, and slip them something. Or something else, because they were usually already loaded or blazed. The target had to be someone people wouldn't miss too much for a while. Maybe someone who already had a history of disappearing for days or weeks at a time. Poor always helped.

His first try had been snatched up by a shameless alpha male with biceps that had either come from the prison yard or a gym membership. Either way, Jameson wasn't in the business of trying to out brute anyone. None the less, it had been an hour wasted, and he wasn't a patient person at the best of times. He reached into his pocket for a silver dollar. The coin was sizable, and had Elizabeth II on the front with 'Canada Dollar' on the back and 1956 as the date. "Dei Gratia Regina." He muttered, though there wasn't true conviction in it. Maybe sarcasm.

He dug a the side of the coin with a thumbnail, like he was considering flipping it. He never would. He knew a few coin tricks, but he mostly just held onto it so he could pressure against its smooth surface like a button. Hit a button and your boss's head explodes. Hit a button and the loud neighbors die of carbon monoxide poison. Back when he had been trying to get clean, his sponsor had given it to him as a tool to deal with stress. 'Think of it as a placeholder till you get your first chip'. Like every other habit, once he'd gotten used to it, he hadn't quite kicked it.

He found himself at the bar. He could drink. Most vampires couldn't. Suck that other vampires.

He ordered a gin and gin, but the bartend was busy flirting with a girl who had, for some reason, worn a bikini top to the club. Jameson didn't bother waiting for a drink, instead turning his attention to a guy who was better dressed than him, who was getting equally shitty service. "There's a circle of hell for assholes like that." Or maybe that was murderers. Potato, potato. "Whiskey?" he asked, eyes on a tumbler.

[Freddo (DELETED 7766)]

Fredrik narrowed his eyes as the events unfolded before him. It certainly was not the first time he’d been ignored in favour of a sexual conquest, but he felt particularly slighted this time around. It wasn’t as though he was competing against someone of particular status or valour, not when it flaunted its assets without any sense of propriety. There was no mystery to her, nothing that drew the eye. Even on the most conventional of terms, she barely made the cut. To be ignored for something so mediocre was upsetting.

Irritated, the blood thief looked on with an impassive scowl. The strength inherited from his previous feed had all but dissipated, leaving him weak. Yet the vicious killer instinct sill clung to the inside of his veins. He was used to commanding greater presence when in attendance, and his ego had grown beyond his natural limitations.

He vaguely wondered whether his appeal grew when the effects of stolen blood clung to him like after-sex glow, and considered how differently this very interaction might have gone. The truth was that he’d never know unless he tested it, and the world was too bustling a place to get a controlled environment necessary for the experiment.

The sight of them irritated him, and respite came in the form of a stranger. Fredrik first noted the other’s appearance, processing the words spoken to him as his gaze took in the sight. Alternative was the word that came to mind. And yet, there was a certain conventionality to the man. If he’d seen the shoes, or been capable of taking in greater detail in this light, he might have found the other’s commitment to the look commendable. As it stood, he was irritable and distracted.

“He’ll get his comeuppance,” Fredrik replied, casting a glance at the bartender before returning his attention to the stranger. The blood thief knew of the masquerade, but he didn’t feel bound to it the way others appeared to be. He was still human after all, albeit a terribly disturbed one. That was a can of worms he’d already opened and sifted through time and time again since his arrival to Harper Rock.

There was nothing inherently revealing about what he said next, though even to his ears it sounded darker than strictly necessary.

“Everyone in this town does.”


It could have been whisky, bourbon, or watered-down rum.

“Mind you, why whisky?”

[Jameson Dade]

Most people ignored Jameson, and he generally preferred it that way. In life, he'd been good at a small handful of things, which included being a **** up, being a junkie, and (according to Max), giving head. In death, one of those had been replaced with a knack for thievery, not that he'd ever reveal which one. It had been pretty easy to ignore him back then; unwashed, with a perpetually dazed expression, he had been a shadow. A poor man's every man. As a vampire, he understood that his kind, the path of the Allurist tended to draw a ton of attention to themselves. Jameson was the exception to the rule. The only gift he'd gotten was the ability to blend in. Even as a blood sucking monster, he could usually pass for human. So there was no need to take note of him, no need to pay attention to the ratty haired boy.

He liked it that way. He had the freedom to do what he wanted in the darkness, and when he absolutely had to, he could turn on the charm. Or. In his case, the lie. That's all charm ever really was anyway.

He could tell his new friend did not share the same philosophy. There was some sort of anger or annoyance etched into the human's features. There was some ****-stirring part of him that wanted to press the issue, find out why being ignored was such an offense. But Jameson knew himself not to be the epitome of normalcy, so he decided against it. Maybe the other man was responding the way everyone else would have. More flies with honey than vinegar, anyway. He'd always found that platitude particularly passive-aggressive. "Nah." He answered. Not to be contrary, but to make conversation.

"The people who really deserve a healthy dose of karma never really get it. Bankers inflate the economy and go unpunished. Politicians lie, and keep getting voted into office. The only way to get justice is to get it for yourself." He waited until the bartend was turned away again before he hefted himself up, his hands flat on the bar counter, so he could lean over. For a second, his feet dangled, and he grabbed a bottle and then another, which had been carelessly placed in easy range for grabbing. As it turned out, neither were whiskey. Oh well. Free was a price that outbid just about any taste, as far as Jameson was concerned. But he'd been raised by an alcoholic. Preferences were for classy drunks.

"I mean if you're into that kind of thing." Said in a way that made it clear Jameson didn't really care for vengeance. Or justice. Or making things right. He'd ruined too much in his life to claim moral high ground. He'd killed. He'd gotten high. He'd stolen. He'd murdered the man he loved without even trying. He cared more about distracting himself.

He eyed the label on a half empty bottle of cotton candy vodka, before reaching to one side. He snatched up one of about five partially empty glasses beside a man who looked like he was trying to drink himself to death. He dumped the remaining few drops of whatever the guy had been drinking onto the floor and then poured enough vodka to hit the rim. The other bottle was cognac.

"What?" He asked. He'd been expecting a yes or no answer, so he was briefly confused, which was evident in his expression. "Oh. To drink." He answered, and it evaded him either deliberately or subconsciously that the guy might be talking about something else. Call it a defense mechanism. His mother was the only parent he could tolerate, and she drank her meager weight twice over in whatever she could get her hands on daily. Had since he'd been a young boy. He knew bars and drinks disturbingly well, but that didn't mean he wanted to talk about it. Jameson pushed both bottles towards Freddo, as if to say 'those're the options'.

"Name's Jameson. Most call me Jay or Jamie." He finally introduced himself. There was something off about the human. Jameson could tell the guy wanted something. But what? Since having joined the Nightlords, Jay had fallen back into some old habits. He dealt a little here and there, when he picked up pills or powder he didn't favor - all so he could pay a little bit of extra cash towards the motor club. He needed to make sure the human was chill before making an offer though.