Out For a Stroll

[|Bastian Blood|]

Its either that finger bone or a cigarette between his lips. Currently its the smoke, wafting toxin into his lungs and the air alike. Bastian is oddly mute as he strolls down the sidewalk, hands sunk deep within his pockets. He's enjoying the evening. Something unusual, which can only mean one thing: He's plotting. "A King" he mutters to himself around the cancer stick before pulling it away from his lips and ashing it onto the sidewalk. He's paused abruptly, forcing traffic to move around him as he stares dumbly up at a street light. "There aren't any fucking Kings in America." The smoke gets replaced between his lips and he continues on his way.

Up ahead a group of boys are playing chase, girls are sitting on their stairs doing one another's hair while passers by make small talk about the weather as they try to hail cabs. He lets the cigarette tumble from his lips to the ground below him without missing a step. Then that smooth finger bone is produced from his pocket and tucked back into his mouth. It helps him think more clearly, and it should. Its the bone of a religious man from the old country. The boys run by and Bast casually pushes a hand out to shove one of them off balance and send him stumbling into the trashcans that line the street. As he kid starts to cry Bastian turns the corner and continues his muttering about royalty.

[Marquis Del Mourir]

How absolutely rhythmic and predictable his lovely little Aldenville could be. Villains, kings, road trash- they all came and went, murdering and claiming things... pretending they could actually tame this city, make it theirs and in their image. The idea, of course was laughable... and why they never lasted. Did he get angry over the various so-called 'threats' to his city? Never. They weren't worth the time of day or night, ever. Those types always came and went- they didn't understand the use of such men as John Alden or even the covens and the packs. It was the real beast- the real bureaucrats of the supernatural world that needed to be outed.

Witches. A fascinating and often engaging menace upon the supernatural race it was they who really held control over things, manipulating from the shadows while the mongrels fought for the scraps. Lycans and vampires- it didn't matter. They had to have a front to their business. Lies. Even his beloved club had a tone of lies to it. Witches? They could parade their works before the masses like some sort of hilariously satirical side show to the churches of the world. Praying to the saints sometimes worked... but why not throw in some lilac just to make that prayer a bit more effective?

His obsession with the witches' council and everything to do with the society behind the hidden world was by no means wavering- nor was his interest in turning every rogue element he could manipulate into something against the witches council in every way. His new interest? Bastian- an all together murderous and wonderous addition to the always growing supernatural demographics. The male was obviously lot in thought and while he was, in the Marquis' own tastes.. disgusting, he could manage it.

"Pushing small boys? Come now.. there's many more interesting things that could be pushed in a city such as this." If there'd ever been a stereotype of a vampire, Marquis was it. Smooth and polished into something of a refined monster, he stood out in the streets in his tailored and immaculate suit, though still restraining enough edge of a violent tendency that no matter the suit, no matter the almost modest approach, it was more than clear exactly what kind of man the Marquis Del Mourir could be.


[if this had been actually held for something let me know.. I just needed a bit to do with Marquis so I don't mind deletin' and takin it elsewhere.]