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Post by alaria blaise heron on Apr 16, 2012 15:34:14 GMT -5
The night was cold enough that it warranted long sleeves. For a change, there were no knives sheathed on her forearms, and to have them on her upper arms would have been nigh on useless, and possibly even counterproductive. She wasn't packing anywhere near as much as she would have if she was working, and this morning, for some unknown reason, she had woken up feeling much less paranoid than she normally did. She had spent the daylight hours with one gun in a shoulder holster beneath her sweater, and her tazer safely in a secret, relatively easily accessible pocket in her handbag. It was rare enough that she carried one, but she had deemed it necessary, merely for the fact that she didn't want people seeing the bulk of the double hip holster.
Tonight wasn't about work. At least not directly. She wasn't physically hunting down a shapeshifter, witch or vampire. Instead, she was intellectually hunting them down – trying to find their hideaway, their den, their lair. She was hunting for information, rather than any preternatural beings, but that didn't stop her being armed. It wasn't paranoia. Not really, anyway. It was just caution. Caution and bad experiences. She wasn't anywhere near as scarred as other bounty hunters she had met (befriended sounded false, and it was – bounty hunters didn't often make acquaintances, much less friends), but she had her fair share of mementos from battles better left forgotten. All of these were covered by her garments, though, so she didn't pay any mind to them. It didn't do to dwell on things too much – used up too much brainpower that could be put to more manipulative and devious scheming.
New Orleans on a Friday night was busy enough that she moved carefully, slowly, so as not to draw undue attention to herself, so she didn't expose her decidedly meagre weaponry. Despite her attempts at blending in, she attracted many more looks than the skimpily dressed women heading into the clubs, simply because she was dressed more like the men they were with. Trousers, a long sleeved top, a baggy shirt, and low heeled boots were her choice of ensemble, and apart from the heels, she probably would have agreed with that assessment. The only problem was that she was going to have to somehow drag the information from unwilling lips, and she was going to hazard a guess that the people she needed to speak to were going to be in a crowded area where she would only be able to use feminine wiles (which she wasn't very good at) rather than threats of violence (which she most certainly was good at).
She must have appeared uncomfortable, because the bouncer on the door of the club stopped her before she entered, requesting identification. With a disdainful and vaguely annoyed look, she pulled out an ID card which stated her age as being twenty two. Barely legal, according to the data, but legal enough that she was allowed in. He didn't seem happy about it, but he had no choice. Rules were rules, so the red rope was pulled aside, and she was ushered through ahead of a large (and loud) group of people who were probably only just over the age of consent themselves. The music pulsed loudly, almost painfully, in her ears, but she waded through the thick bass and the writhing bodies to sit at the bar. It was by far the best scoping point in the place, but it did mean that she was left to fend off way too much unwanted attention.
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tagged: open
outfit: click
word count: 601
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Post by Alan Blythe on Apr 24, 2012 2:09:34 GMT -5
[div style="margin-bottom: -23px; font-family: georgia; font-size: 26px;[br"] text-align:center; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #838383; font-variant: small-caps;margin-bottom: -18px;]But talk will get you nowhere [/div] The only thing you brought is psychological warfare | [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,10,true][atrb=style,background-image: url('http://i53.tinypic.com/wb98wn.jpg');,true] WELL THIS MEANS WAR
The head honcho, the big bad wolf, the scary dude everyone stays away from if they don't know what they are doing was sitting in a booth, with his daughter by his side. The club allowed it, but he had also insisted that his daughter be allowed in for any harm done to her he was suing the club for damages his daughter may have gotten if she wasn't allowed in. Jezebel was using a coloring book and listening to something on the iPod, Alan had bought for her. Who knew a nine year old had music that she liked at that age? He surely didn't, he was always outside playing, trying to avoid his parents and to keep from being beaten by his father.
But tonight wasn't about remembering his childhood and what he had to go through to get this far in life. He was here to have fun and that s the point of this adventure. To enjoy an evening with his daughter and to see a comedy act. Of course he was hardly interested in what went on, as long as it wasn't the vampire acts. Those just seemed terrible. The zombie acts were alright, watching a zombie moving around on the stage was interesting, but just down right weird.
Alan took the time to look around the club during the intermission of one of the acts. He just wanted to know who was all here and what they thought of the place. He gave his wolves free will on most of the things they could work as, but if they were a known werewolf then they would have to work as something that would allow them to get a job there. He couldn't mess with the applications on the police force to allow them to hide the blood work that they were lycanthropy. It would get him ousted and have the public figure out he was a werewolf some way or another. He wouldn't let that get in his way though. He sent one of the wolves to go get another round of drinks for everyone. They were having a grand time, if the night wasn't ruined by vampires or anything downers.
365 WORDS , Alaria |
table by california dreaming @ caution 2.0 [/center] |
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