Motor City Burning
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Lines in the Sand [Mr Smith]

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Lines in the Sand [Mr Smith] Empty Lines in the Sand [Mr Smith]

Post by Dean on Fri Aug 06, 2010 2:49 pm

[Scened by Kervorkian and me a few days ago on Google Wave(RIP)]

The cheap, weatherworn granite door to your haven appears to have been vandalised. There's a few letters carved into it reading '2REG CAG'

Mr. Smith returning from his evening at mingling among his fellow kindred stops in his tracks seeing his haven vandelized, gripping the head of the cane with near shattering anger he stiffly approuched for another look, "What the devil does that mean..." He questioned allowed to no one, only one who would hear was his imp and he doubted the imp knew. His orbs studied the words.

It's a quiet night. The cemetary is large and fairly close to the small industrial enclave bordering the docks proper. There are whispers of Sanctified coteries warring for turf a little North of here and an insular Crone coterie some ways West.

You recognise the letters to be a West Side code. REG means Regent. 2 could mean 'meet'. CAG doesn't stir anything however.

Only partly enlightened by the message he inspects how the writing was carved trying to conclude by hand claw or tool. He runs a shriveled finger over the letters to feel how smooth they were cut into the stone.

The stone isn't that hard, battered by smog-choked rain and time. However, the message seems to have been carved into the door haphazardly with a blunt chisel. Probably with one hand.

The meaning of the words didn't mean as much as the disrespect to his property, a note would have done just fine he had a table inside, hell they could've stuck it to the door. Pushing the door in, he cautiously proceeded inside weary and alert for the vandals that may have stayed behind to deliver a more violent message, it blood itched where it sat still in his vains waiting to be used.

The Haven appears empty and untouched. You can hear talking from way back outside, somewhere in the graveyard. You can't make out the words though. This is unusual. Even the cliche of goth kids hanging out after hours in graveyards doesn't apply here, given that these aren't the suburbs.

Rerouting your charged senses, you manage to make out a little of the chatter.

"So's Kerns taking tax from warm squatters too? Who's collecting?" The voice is reedy. Shrill. It almost hurts, amplified like this.

"Fuck if I care. Just did my red rent. I figure that takes me off the roster. Whoever's fucked up hardest in the last week." This voice is lower, and the pitch shifts, distorted by your strained, supernatural senses. It's getting a littler louder though, and the crunching sound suggests footsteps.

"So Red."

They laugh. It doesn't sound very pleasant.

Not standing for being violated as such Mr. Smith creeps after them silently into the dark cloaking his steps his very presence into the wrapping mask of obfuscation, it merely amplified the worlds own feelings for something so viel not to exist hiding him from their sight, he crept after them.

"It's marked," Deep voice mutters to shrill voice.

"That's good," Shrill voice murmurs back, humourlessly.

The pair traipse into your line of sight. One is broad and solid. The other reedy, thin. They're dark-skinned, maybe middle-eastern or mixed race. It's hard to tell in the dark, even with the sight. A sledgehammer trails in the grip of the smaller one.

Mr. Smith was ambitious and very prideful and wanted them to pay for what they did but he was also a man of opertunity and he knew this was not the right time to drag one into the night and make him scream, this required a more diplomatic approach. Pushing viate through his undead body his boasted his social prowess. Allowing the mask fall he decided he should use a more gentle approach, "If you leave a message it may be smart to make sure the receiver can understand it..."

The smaller man looks at the larger man, who looms over his companion unphased.

"That's him. The fruitcake," he explains, answering his friend's unasked question. He looks your way, disdain creeping over his craggy face. "That message wasn't for you," he explains, as the smaller one hefts up the sledgehammer.

raising a eyebrow and being called a fruitcake not understanding what he meant at all he felt himself slightly consumed in confusion, wasn't for me? He thought as he glanced from one to the other, "Then would you please tell me why exactly you defaced my property?"

The smaller one looks at the larger and laughs. The big man puts sausage fingers through his short, greasy hair and smiles, amused.

"I never marked up your door. That message is for me."

The more things were explained the less Mr. Smith understood, and being one used to being knowdglable and in control this did not sit well his first assumption was that between the two of them they were lieing, he paid closer attention to them to pick up any signs, "What does it mean, and whom is it I should be seeking responsabilty for this then?" He approached more hoveling on his cane as though it was needed

The smaller man hefts his hammer aggressively. "Ok, first off, fuck your door."

The larger man stifles his comrade with a dismissive hand. "An associate marked your door. Marked it for me. Let's take a walk and I'll fill you in. What do you say?" His tone is stern, though it lacks the confrontational edge the other man clings to.

He would've glared at the small hammering wielding thing, but not having the eyelids the action wouldn't have been worth it, not that he was ethire. Something felt off to him, but Mr. Smith was secure in himself enough to go out on a limb here, he was a capable kindred, "I'm Listening,"

The larger man is older too. Older looking at any rate. His face is a wreck, albeit a mundane wreck, with its crushed-flat nose which resembles a speed bag, and the dent in his left eyesocket. His unkempt goatee has a little grey in it. His partner's younger looking. Hard-faced, with eager eyes, head shaved. The way he twists that hammer in his grip makes it seem like he's itching to do some damage.

They begin to walk in the direction of the cracked concrete footpath carving up the greenery. It's a mild night, but humid. You hear cars snarl past in the distance. You smell smog from the South, faint, but acrid all the same. The larger man looks around as he walks. His tread is slow, as if he has all the time in the world, while the sawn-off with the lump hammer tries not to wander ahead.

"You got a new landlord, you know that?" the big man mentions, casually.

"I've heard, I don't put much stock in who runs the land around me, this little graveyard is my own, not much use for it by anyone but myself, it tends to my needs." He looks down to the man, the slow pace is two Mr. Smith's liking he glances around himself. Keeping an eye on the smaller man he keeps talking, "Tell me what that means for me, and my graveyard?"

"We don't give a fuck about your graveyard. So let's get that out of the way. This here is slim pickings."

"You got that right..." The younger looking man chimes in.

"What concerns us is you. What you get up to around here. We like things quiet. And the landlord likes tribute."

A couple of birds scatter as you approach them, leaving a dog carcass that looks fairly fresh.

Glancing at the caress with little interest he shifts his attention back to the two men, "That is nothing new, and undeserving shot caller wanting something that isn't his," He replies, "It is the nature of the beast," He reffered more to the system of politics then the inner one

"Let me stop you right there." The big man offers, calmly. "Don't bring deserve into this. There's a lot of ashes in the wind that made us 'deserve' this patch. Talk like that'll make you look like a loose end. You catch my drift? I'm offering to you an opportunity."

Mr. Smith stops and leans on his cane eyeing the man for second, And I have consumed others for less, He thinks to himself, mind your tongue or you'll be ash in my mouth. These words itch on his tongue but he is a cunning man and knows when to pick his fights "An opportunity?" He asks, prodding for him to elaborate

"Your property ends with that marked door. Get on the census. Pay dues. Then it'll be like nothing changed. You understand me? The man wants to meet with you. He can tell it better than I can."

"It normally is better speak with the master rather than the help," Mr Smith says absently not meaning anything by it but fact. "Where can I find this man to converse with him and draw out the lines in the sand."

The larger man pauses for a second, and then grabs you firmly, with speed that can't be human. He has a large palm encompassing the back of your skull, and another hand like a vise around the armpit of your cane arm. You're forced to bend your knees slightly to look him directly in the eye. He looks slightly surprised at his own response, but pieces the placid expression back together.

"I've been patient with you, but that kind of talk doesn't sit well with me or any of the movement. Ok?"

Its hard to make an expression on a face like Mr. Smith so any surprise to the assault were hidden, his orbs locked on his eye as he studied the man for a second, he had expected different from his covenant, "I am a creature of habit and words are hard to change and control," He begins, "I'll see what I can do with my choice of words, but I belive there are non violent approuches to setteling conflicts which I've seen you're covenant show in times gone by, I didn't think the First Covenant was right about the wild and radical side of your movement, but I like to belive that some out burst and just that uncontroled out burst."

Chewing his words in his mind for a second, "We seem to have started this on the wrong foot begin with, how about you turn me loose and take me to whomever you were talking about moments ago."

"Don't tell me about my Covenant." The larger man tells you slowly, as though correcting a presumption about something like heritage. The smaller one snaps to attention, as though things are about to get heated.

"The thing about my Covenant is that times gone past means jack shit. Times gone past is something we need like a top hat and a cane in an alley fight. You got that?"

Assuming he was the top hat and cane seeing as that was what he was wearing, "I can tell, time passes and change comes hard, sometimes force is needed, but I understand what you mean, it was preumpishes of me to talk about your covenant, excuse me," Attempting to pull out from his grip as he spoke the next line, "I offer my apologies."

The larger man lets you go. He nods, reluctantly, while the smaller man lets the heavy end of the hammer crash into the ground, turning it over to use the light end as support.

"Yeah, well. We worked hard for this patch. All of the chain. There's a warehouse just South of here. First row off this part. Sticks out 'cus it's red. You make your way down there after midnight."

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