---

Even for an ostensible enemy of the state, it pays to check in on things now and again. Put in some face and remind them that she's still out there, the Camarilla's loud neighbor. Just outside the HOA and playing garage metal at all hours. Nobody to call about the unmowed lawn with the empty bottles, the scent of cannabis wafting from the backyard. The barbecue parties that go all the way from dusk 'til dawn.

As a squad, they roll in five deep from a late-model black sedan escorted by a pair of crotch rockets. The hangers-on alternate but they're always folk who are good at fighting but ultimately not mission-critical. Expendable. And it's the same size as Brighton's posse on purpose, a sort of funhouse mirror alternate reality of what they could be. What they should be.

Hell, that's why she'd brought along a defector, just to rub it in the Sheriff's face.

So, three Brujah, a Caitiff and an especially jacked Banu Haqim walk into a bar museum. They're all dressed in black, no layers, jeans and t-shirts or tank tops, their leader no different. No weapons, visibly nowhere to conceal anything substantial enough to jack up a Kindred. Ultimately meaningless considering the powers at hand but it's a conspicuous display that they're complying with the rules. Not here to start anything. Even though they kinda are, and everyone knows it.

Typical reaction is for the chatter to die down when they roll in, all eyes on. Once that awkward silence passes they break up, buddy system time. The Caitiff's minded by Brighton's ex-enforcer - he's got enough juice, somehow, to light fires so of all the expendables he's kind of the MVP tonight for if The Worm Turns. Dio rolls solo, stride fearless, chin held high. Sheer momentum carries her to the Etruscan exhibit, which she pretends to view, rubbing thoughtfully at her chin. Transparently, though, she's eavesdropping on the conversation happening a few feet away.

---

Travis J. Calloway. Black Cat Calloway. Black Cat. Or... juss plain ole Travis. - The Gangrel with the cat-like eyes and the permanent fangs.

Ole Black Cat Calloway may or may not have worn out his welcome out west, and after spending a few months going quite literally to ground, he was ready to try his luck back east. He was known to travel 'round, but typically hung his hat in Texas, Oklahoma, or Arizona. Tampa Florida had been on his radar for some time, but he always found a reason to go somewhere else. - Now he was dusting the dirt of his boots and making a rare appearance at Elysium, if anything to make his presence known and rub elbows with other Kindred for a change. It was kinda nice to socialize on neutral ground, even if it put him on alert not being armed. 

Travis traveled fairly light considering he hitched his horse trailer to his mustang and drove to Tampa with not much else 'cept the clothes on his back and a small assortment of pistols. He opted to stop at a western wear outlet in Dallas, taking 1-20 east towards Atlanta and hooking south towards Tampa. - He cleaned up nice; shined his boots up real good, slicked his coal black hair back, and even took the time to iron his shirt new button down shirt and black denim pants in the cheap highway adjacent motel. He put on his favorite bolo tie, the one with the silver stiletto tipped aiguillettes and the golden honey hued cats eye gem.

He would, however, still opt to tie a simple black bandana around the lower portion of his face to obscure his fangs when he spoke, lest he be accused of breaking The Masquerade. Sure, he was probably as Independent as they came, but it's always a good idea to play nice with the Camarilla, and The Masquerade in general was put in place for a reason. Black Cat respected that. - He does remove his hat when he enters, out of habit more than anything. He carries it with him by the crown, at his side, with the inner lining towards him. That there is juss standard hat etiquette, and despite his rather modern ways, some traditions persist.

Travis meanders 'round the museum, feigning only a passing interest at any of the exhibits. He was new in town, and anyone who might know him from his past would recognize him instantly from his cat-like eyes; one of the more prominent of his animalistic features. The fangs, not a result of his lineage, but cat-like in their own way. His eyes might be peculiar to some, but it didn't mark him as Vampire quite as obviously as the hole pokers in his mouth. Sure, he could have done the quiet loner thing and just not opened his mouth, or positioned himself with his back to onlookers and/or cameras and used his hat to obscure his mouth when he talked... but that was a whole mess of work, and he could do the bandana thing and be done with it. In modern nights, people were covering their face in public for one reason or another, so at least he looked like less of a bank robber in 21st Century than he in did in the 19th Century, when he was a bank robber.

---

Sergine was feeling pretty good the last few nights, success always brought the Brujah's better angels to the fore, making her more sociable and outgoing...at least so far as one might consider the scarred vampire outgoing. So they had decided that tonight, they would partake of the Elysium and what it had to offer, given the last time they had been present they had spent a total of five minutes within its confines, their agenda....significantly different then it was now.

Tonight they are in their usual uniform, at least when dealing with high society. They worse a decent suit in charcoal black, the vest, the shirt, and the tie were also black in varying shades creating a severe look that also showed a certain level of awareness of appearances, even when much of his face was covered in scar tissue.

They had been relaxing on the second floor, staring out at the art installation that hung suspended from the ceiling. They had stood there, their bored looking eyes watching the multi coloured disks shift in the climate control created currents. Eventually though, they had moved away from this installation, moving quietly through the space as they surveyed those around them.

Eventually, they had come to the Etruscan exhibit, and while they might have simply wandered past they did spy a vampire they knew. He considered her options for a few seconds, before shifting their trajectory towards the two men who were talking.

Geoffrey Wodeward


To all things housed in her silence

Nature offers a violence

---

"Oh, hell." A voice spoke up from behind Abel from a respectable number of paces away. "Look who it is."

You had to make your own nights enjoyable or the weight of them would crush you. Large things or small. When he'd chanced on a familiar face in an unfamiliar city here tonight, he'd first ducked behind a glass display case to hide his approach. Moved as quietly as possible through the ancient artifacts on display until he was directly behind the Toreador.

Close enough to speak. A lightness in his tone that suggested he wasn't being at all serious.

The Gangrel had pulled his hair back for the occasion, out of the face. The shirt tucked into his dark wash jeans was just a touch archaic; laces at the turned up collar, gathered at the cuff. The pair of silver medallions, one round and one oval-shaped at the collar matched it well enough.

The Tag Heuer dive watch around his wrist sure didn't.

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
those boon times went bust
my feet of clay, they dried to dust
the red isn't the red we painted
its just rust

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

Exhibit: The Etruscans - A Mysterious Italian People

Another night, another trip to the museum to look at art. Play-acting as a Toreador never really got boring for Rudy. Evading his own identity was a compulsion he couldn’t resist - someone should do a study, calling Dr. Netchurch! But more than that, with this particular role there was almost no way to do it wrong. Pretending to be a scholar of art was as valid as actually possessing scholarly knowledge of art. Mistakes were little imperfections that just made it feel more real. Posing as a poseur was sometimes actually more valuable because it was so believable. How many foppish, pretentious aesthetes populated the clan of the Rose? 

Too fuckin’ many to count.

Nature abhorred a vacuum, and when presented with the empty canvas generated by a dilettante, others tended to paint their own thoughts and feelings onto it. In a sense, it was like becoming a mirror; since there was nothing real of the personality to reflect, what it reflected back instead was what the other person wanted to see. Kindred often had deep-seated needs to dominate and feel strong, so the vacuous mirror created plenty of opportunities to give them that.

This evening, he was enjoying an exhibit on the Etruscans. His ensemble presented as steetwear aristocrat: an oversized white hoodie with an abstract print, tailored black cargo pants, black matte leather combat boots, and a long black wool trench coat. Affectation from top to bottom.

He was standing in front of a terracotta sculpture, a bust of a young woman adorned as a maenad. Here he was, a man of unknown identity, exploring art of a little-known people, looking at the representation of a follower of Dionysus, whilst sipping from a little glass bottle filled with liquid believed to be created by the god of the same name. Theatrical synergy, thy name is Rudolph!

The self-satisfied smile that crossed his face indicated to any onlookers that he was already enjoying his evening.