The weapon exchange, even given the recent boost in weapon productivity in the city, wasn’t doing a great deal for Elliot’s conscience. He was a man who preferred peace; who preferred to solve problems via rhetoric rather than through violence. Violence was always a last resort, or should be, in Elliot’s opinion. Even after having lived in the city for nearing on three years, he still could not understand the general concensus amongst the vampiric population that it was best to shoot first and ask questions later, and that death was a reasonable punishment for a very small mistake.
The musician had started to gather weapons because he thought it was best, in such a violent climate, that all the new d’Artois fledglings have weapons with which to defend themselves. After long deliberation, however, Elliot thought that, if such a thing were needed, he would give the required money to the new progeny rather than the weapons. Or, he would source the weapons himself, given his propensity for sweet talking the city merchants into discounts.
He thought it perhaps idiotic that, with such a peaceful philosophy, he hoard weaponry. And so he had got rid of it, and he had sold the business—or the store at least—to Doc. A man that he hated, but that didn’t matter. The business was off his hands, and in its place he had started his newest brainchild – Bunk Backpackers, located just above the pub. Given that most tourists would arrive during the day looking for somewhere to stay, Elliot had hired two very willing girls to look after the business while he was otherwise occupied – or, well, sleeping. They took care of the bookings, and made sure that all the sheets were always clean, and that the hostel itself was always clean, and very welcoming.
The pub itself and the music store had gathered enough of a reputation that the profits were satisfying – Elliot worked far too hard in the spare hours of his night trying to get Bunk to a similar bracket.
He realised, after quite a few weeks, that he hadn’t seen Zane in a while. He had no doubts that the young man could take care of himself. That, having asked to be brought over into this life, he would do quite well. But that didn’t mean Elliot should ignore him completely. And thus, Elliot took the night off and, standing outside of the pub he pulled his phone from his pocket. He could, of course, talk directly into Zane’s head if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t ever be that forward or invasive. Instead, he chose to send the man a text:
”How you doin’, mate? Feel like catching up?”
He then waited, watched the passer-by, to see if Zane was free. If not, he supposed he would go back to work.
[Attire + black jeans and boots]
