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RP Threads / Re: Black Celebration - Succubus Club,1986
« Last post by MAT on March 31, 2025, 01:35:33 am »Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
if the good die young we're gonna live forever
heaven and earth, couldn′t stand in our way
if the good die young we′re gonna live forever
and that's the price we′re gonna pay
Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura
The walls of the men's bathroom were covered in artwork: spray-painted symbols, poetry, and collections of symbols both of the mundane modern times and the occult tags of forgotten nights. A miasma of beer, sweat, cigarette smoke, and different colognes clung to the air, thick and oppressive. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, occasionally casting erratic shadows that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the bass-heavy music pumping through the club.
In one of the stalls, two bodies were intertwined. One man was desperate and the other just a little hungry. It was a fair trade, the vampire told himself. The Kiss was ecstasy and he wrapped it in a nice package; a hot and heavy tryst. Something to make a person feel alive. To feel wanted, to feel good.
He was a creator of good feelings. He was basically doing them a favor. Wink.
Rudolph licked the neck wound clean and adjusted his tan khakis, murmuring some quiet praise into the other man’s ear. Then he stepped out and stopped at the sink, taking a moment to splash some water onto his face. Leaning against the porcelain, he turned the water off and checked his appearance. Just a few years earlier, he’d been hanging by chains in a Tzimisce dungeon, hacked apart and disfigured. The monster had undone the physical damage and repaired his visage…even enhanced it. But the psychic damage was healing much more slowly.
His look was a preppy aesthetic, refined with just enough edge to make it his own. He wore a soft, pastel pink polo shirt that clung perfectly to his lean frame, the collar popped up with what the kine thought passed for casual, carefree defiance. The shirt's short sleeves showed off his toned arms, and the small embroidered logo on the chest, subtle but expensive, hinted at a designer label without screaming for attention. A pair of sunglasses were perched on the top of his head. Sunglasses. As if.
His vibrant green eyes sparkled in the flickering pale light, and he glanced in the mirror’s reflection to the stall door behind him, barely ajar, and the silhouette inside. Au revoir.
When he opened the door to the main floor, a soundwave hit him and his body vibrated. He carefully threaded through the packed tables and past the bar on the south end of the building. Working his way to the north corner, he flashed a grin at the bouncers standing on either side of the wrought-metal stairwell to the balcony level.
Upstairs, he had his own table; a kind of permanent haunt that overlooked the throngs below and the dancers suspended on the hanging platforms. He was lounging against a faux-leather backed bench chatting with a young woman. Someone’s neonate lackey. Eventually she left to dance.
There was an earthenware jar sitting on the table. He’d **** the red wax seal holding its lid shut and poured some of the contents into a shot glass. He was sipping it slowly when the newcomer approached.
Eying him up and down, Rudy nodded. “Yeah. And you are?”
heaven and earth, couldn′t stand in our way
if the good die young we′re gonna live forever
and that's the price we′re gonna pay
Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura
The walls of the men's bathroom were covered in artwork: spray-painted symbols, poetry, and collections of symbols both of the mundane modern times and the occult tags of forgotten nights. A miasma of beer, sweat, cigarette smoke, and different colognes clung to the air, thick and oppressive. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, occasionally casting erratic shadows that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the bass-heavy music pumping through the club.
In one of the stalls, two bodies were intertwined. One man was desperate and the other just a little hungry. It was a fair trade, the vampire told himself. The Kiss was ecstasy and he wrapped it in a nice package; a hot and heavy tryst. Something to make a person feel alive. To feel wanted, to feel good.
He was a creator of good feelings. He was basically doing them a favor. Wink.
Rudolph licked the neck wound clean and adjusted his tan khakis, murmuring some quiet praise into the other man’s ear. Then he stepped out and stopped at the sink, taking a moment to splash some water onto his face. Leaning against the porcelain, he turned the water off and checked his appearance. Just a few years earlier, he’d been hanging by chains in a Tzimisce dungeon, hacked apart and disfigured. The monster had undone the physical damage and repaired his visage…even enhanced it. But the psychic damage was healing much more slowly.
His look was a preppy aesthetic, refined with just enough edge to make it his own. He wore a soft, pastel pink polo shirt that clung perfectly to his lean frame, the collar popped up with what the kine thought passed for casual, carefree defiance. The shirt's short sleeves showed off his toned arms, and the small embroidered logo on the chest, subtle but expensive, hinted at a designer label without screaming for attention. A pair of sunglasses were perched on the top of his head. Sunglasses. As if.
His vibrant green eyes sparkled in the flickering pale light, and he glanced in the mirror’s reflection to the stall door behind him, barely ajar, and the silhouette inside. Au revoir.
When he opened the door to the main floor, a soundwave hit him and his body vibrated. He carefully threaded through the packed tables and past the bar on the south end of the building. Working his way to the north corner, he flashed a grin at the bouncers standing on either side of the wrought-metal stairwell to the balcony level.
Upstairs, he had his own table; a kind of permanent haunt that overlooked the throngs below and the dancers suspended on the hanging platforms. He was lounging against a faux-leather backed bench chatting with a young woman. Someone’s neonate lackey. Eventually she left to dance.
There was an earthenware jar sitting on the table. He’d **** the red wax seal holding its lid shut and poured some of the contents into a shot glass. He was sipping it slowly when the newcomer approached.
Eying him up and down, Rudy nodded. “Yeah. And you are?”
