The bright lights up in Camarilla territory were aggressive when you were used to the half-assed job Hemlock did in keeping the party district lit. Pretty Boy took a drag, his cigarette illuminating his narrowed gaze. ********, who needed anything to be this well lit? He stood out like a sore thumb next to the entrance of the Prince's high rise, not just there though, he stood out *vibrantly* against the crisp, affluent, business energy of the entire district. It was late enough that there were very few Kats around to give him the standard 'you don't belong here' look. It was his favorite look, well one of them anyway. And that was mostly because it provided an opportunity to really make them uncomfortable or cement his image as a degenerate in their eyes.
The ******** clans. His lips lifted into a faint smirk as he took another drag, the smoke curling through his nostrils upon exhale. His claws gave a sharp click as he flicked his cigarette off into the darkness. A little silent ******** you. Honestly, he wouldn't be here if he didn't have a very good reason and the clans didn't generally want the clanless about without a good reason either. But business, his business, required him to do s**t he hated sometimes. Taking a deep breath inward he closed his eyes, steeling himself for his next encounter. Don't ******** it up, Pretty Boy.
He had to repeat this mantra. Not because he wasn't adept at maneuvering the social minefield of politics, he could do that just fine if he really had to, but because of his strong, deeply ingrained desire to be blunt and raw in the face of control. But he would ******** himself if he did that here. The Prince wasn't the one he wanted to make an enemy of. Sure, clanless weren't technically under Camarilla rule but they could order a bloodhunt easily on a clanless and the clans would barely bat an eyelash. Being in a clan had its advantages and.. disadvantages. He just couldn't bring himself to bend over and take the big one. He liked the advantages being clanless afforded way, way, too much.
He waited until a couple of, what were those lawyers?, came wandering out the front doors before slipping in past them, just in case there was a lock or some kind of paging system. He wanted to keep a low profile-ish. Sure, he'd probably get slammed for not having an appointment but he wasn't risking a rejection right off the bat.. or to get put on some bullshit waiting list a mile long. He didn't have time for that. He had to get the club back open. The Prince was probably in the penthouse, it felt like the appropriate place for big bad Camarilla mommy. Keeping a watchful eye on everyone and everything.
Pretty Boy checked the directory, the Ventrue were nothing if not immaculate in their organization of their hierarchies. Lucky for him. He slid a claw up the list of names until it landed squarely on hers. Yep. Penthouse. The male exhaled sharply through his nostrils as his initial guess proved correct. His knuckle punched the call button on the elevator and he slipped inside as the doors opened, hitting the big fancy (P) at the top of the selection of buttons. Pretty Boy leaned against the back wall as the elevator jostled to life, his head resting against the metal while keeping his eyes on the door. This would either be a brilliant idea or a ******** stupid one. Fortunately for him he wasn't prone to making stupid ******** decisions, so there was hope yet.
The ******** clans. His lips lifted into a faint smirk as he took another drag, the smoke curling through his nostrils upon exhale. His claws gave a sharp click as he flicked his cigarette off into the darkness. A little silent ******** you. Honestly, he wouldn't be here if he didn't have a very good reason and the clans didn't generally want the clanless about without a good reason either. But business, his business, required him to do s**t he hated sometimes. Taking a deep breath inward he closed his eyes, steeling himself for his next encounter. Don't ******** it up, Pretty Boy.
He had to repeat this mantra. Not because he wasn't adept at maneuvering the social minefield of politics, he could do that just fine if he really had to, but because of his strong, deeply ingrained desire to be blunt and raw in the face of control. But he would ******** himself if he did that here. The Prince wasn't the one he wanted to make an enemy of. Sure, clanless weren't technically under Camarilla rule but they could order a bloodhunt easily on a clanless and the clans would barely bat an eyelash. Being in a clan had its advantages and.. disadvantages. He just couldn't bring himself to bend over and take the big one. He liked the advantages being clanless afforded way, way, too much.
He waited until a couple of, what were those lawyers?, came wandering out the front doors before slipping in past them, just in case there was a lock or some kind of paging system. He wanted to keep a low profile-ish. Sure, he'd probably get slammed for not having an appointment but he wasn't risking a rejection right off the bat.. or to get put on some bullshit waiting list a mile long. He didn't have time for that. He had to get the club back open. The Prince was probably in the penthouse, it felt like the appropriate place for big bad Camarilla mommy. Keeping a watchful eye on everyone and everything.
Pretty Boy checked the directory, the Ventrue were nothing if not immaculate in their organization of their hierarchies. Lucky for him. He slid a claw up the list of names until it landed squarely on hers. Yep. Penthouse. The male exhaled sharply through his nostrils as his initial guess proved correct. His knuckle punched the call button on the elevator and he slipped inside as the doors opened, hitting the big fancy (P) at the top of the selection of buttons. Pretty Boy leaned against the back wall as the elevator jostled to life, his head resting against the metal while keeping his eyes on the door. This would either be a brilliant idea or a ******** stupid one. Fortunately for him he wasn't prone to making stupid ******** decisions, so there was hope yet.
Noir Songbird
