Oh my beautiful liar...
Despite the sub-freezing weather, there are still a few people out and about in Chicago.
There's a whore walking the streets of Chicago, but not for the reasons you'd think. A blue-haired demon who goes by Indigo Jones has spent the day shopping, and is in a pretty good mood. She's locked her bags in the trunk of her car, and now she's searching out a bar. A nice, warm bar. She's got giant-sized Pixy Stix tube in one gloved hand, and a cigarette in the other, taking a puff off one and a hit of sugar off the other in turn, and is half-skipping, half-dancing down the street. It's keeping her warm, at least. She's never had much in the way of shame, and poise is reserved for when she's working.
She wouldn't mind some company on her way the bar, as long as the company behaves itself. Company that doesn't... Well, she's a Behemoth. And she could use a snack.
Eric Delaflote is finally taking some much-needed personal time -- by which we mean, time spent on his own particular brand of hunting. He's in a fairly upscale Chicago bar, sipping a glass of wine and appearing to mind his own business.
What he's actually doing is a bit more involved: scanning the emotions of the crowd around him, looking for anything he can play with. Despair, heartbreak, jealousy... Something he can use, something he can twist...
It's been a long time since he enjoyed himself like this; playing nice for Elashte's sake is all well and good, but honestly, he's not out to start a war. All he wants is to destroy a human or two. And while he intends to be discreet, his Calling can only be denied for so long. He feels like a good murder... Or maybe a suicide. Maybe both.
That's the wonderful thing about being a Glaysa... All the pain, all the blood, and you can keep your hands clean.
Schrödinger, for a change, isn't in a bar, trying to score drinks. He's in the Coffee Shop -- yes, that Coffee Shop -- nursing a peppermint mocha latte, and he's supremely unconcerned with the possibility that he might be attacked, blown up, or set on fire.
He's sitting by himself, scribbling on a napkin in Enochian, but that doesn't mean he'd be adverse to company, if said company proves sufficiently interesting.
A number of flyers have appeared over Chicago, advertising Maximilian J. Maxwell's Traveling Amusements.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and whoever else is out there, there's a carnival coming to town. And Mr. Maxwell is sure Chicago will be so much fun for all concerned.
There are people who are out and about, and then there are those that are missing. Shepherd Book hasn't been seen since after his attempt to assassinate John Thane. CCTV shows that he entered his room and never left, but the room itself is empty.
There's a whore walking the streets of Chicago, but not for the reasons you'd think. A blue-haired demon who goes by Indigo Jones has spent the day shopping, and is in a pretty good mood. She's locked her bags in the trunk of her car, and now she's searching out a bar. A nice, warm bar. She's got giant-sized Pixy Stix tube in one gloved hand, and a cigarette in the other, taking a puff off one and a hit of sugar off the other in turn, and is half-skipping, half-dancing down the street. It's keeping her warm, at least. She's never had much in the way of shame, and poise is reserved for when she's working.
She wouldn't mind some company on her way the bar, as long as the company behaves itself. Company that doesn't... Well, she's a Behemoth. And she could use a snack.
Eric Delaflote is finally taking some much-needed personal time -- by which we mean, time spent on his own particular brand of hunting. He's in a fairly upscale Chicago bar, sipping a glass of wine and appearing to mind his own business.
What he's actually doing is a bit more involved: scanning the emotions of the crowd around him, looking for anything he can play with. Despair, heartbreak, jealousy... Something he can use, something he can twist...
It's been a long time since he enjoyed himself like this; playing nice for Elashte's sake is all well and good, but honestly, he's not out to start a war. All he wants is to destroy a human or two. And while he intends to be discreet, his Calling can only be denied for so long. He feels like a good murder... Or maybe a suicide. Maybe both.
That's the wonderful thing about being a Glaysa... All the pain, all the blood, and you can keep your hands clean.
Schrödinger, for a change, isn't in a bar, trying to score drinks. He's in the Coffee Shop -- yes, that Coffee Shop -- nursing a peppermint mocha latte, and he's supremely unconcerned with the possibility that he might be attacked, blown up, or set on fire.
He's sitting by himself, scribbling on a napkin in Enochian, but that doesn't mean he'd be adverse to company, if said company proves sufficiently interesting.
A number of flyers have appeared over Chicago, advertising Maximilian J. Maxwell's Traveling Amusements.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and whoever else is out there, there's a carnival coming to town. And Mr. Maxwell is sure Chicago will be so much fun for all concerned.
There are people who are out and about, and then there are those that are missing. Shepherd Book hasn't been seen since after his attempt to assassinate John Thane. CCTV shows that he entered his room and never left, but the room itself is empty.