Dillon Connery meditates in some unusual places. Tonight, it's a small bar called the Oaks Lodge off of Auburn Boulevard, and just east of Hamilton Street Park. It's an unassuming place, not very busy, with a parking lot allowing for less than twenty cars. There's a lot less than that here tonight, and Dillon's battered-looking El Camino stands out among them.
There's a football game on the TV in one corner, and and music on the jukebox in the other, but at least the people are quiet enough. The general din of the place is the entire purpose toward Dillon's presence here, as he attempts to center himself with distractions present. Surely, if he could accomplish such a calm focus among the public, it would be a step closer to invoking the Dark Miracles, possibly in the heat of battle.
So there the Priscus of Savages sits, in a booth by the windows, silently detaching himself from the swell of human activity all around. Ignoring the hum of excited voices, the bounce of classic rock, the sports announcer's play-by-play, Dillon allows it all to swarm together in the background of his consciousness. He does this until it becomes a soothing chorus, rather like rain on a tin roof, or the calls of cicada.
Harder to ignore are the touch of his surroundings. The itch of his coat collar on the back of his neck, the wallet in his back pocket, the sweating, un-drunk beer in his hands... all can be separated from the conscious state if one can ignore them long enough. The other three senses are easier to deny. You can simply close your eyes and mouth, and for vampires at least, stop breathing.
Dillon has no idea how long he's in this state, shutting off his brain's stimuli and allowing the Man and Beast within nothing but each others company. This part is the hardest of all. The Beast of a Gangrel will not be ignored. It is a restless thing, an angry thing, that cannot ever be truly tamed. It can be led, sometimes. Cooperated with, usually. But it constantly threatens to disrupt Dillon's mind, especially when his mind is focusing on nothing.
| Date |
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Action |
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Roll |
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Result |
| 2011-09-15 09:11:17 |
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Dillon Connery rolls 5 to Meditate (Wits+Composure-1) (1s Subtract) |
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6, 3, 5, 8, 2 |
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1 success |
| 2011-09-15 09:08:03 |
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Dillon Connery rolls 8 to 23936 (1s Subtract, WillPower) |
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10, 4, 10, 1, 10, 3, 8, 7 |
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3 successes |
| 2011-09-15 09:05:56 |
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Dillon Connery rolls 5 to Meditate (Wits+Composure-1) (1s Subtract) |
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9, 5, 3, 1, 7 |
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failure |
The battle is won, however, and peace ensues. Dillon can almost see the path of his life as a strand of pale thread, mingling with those other threads in an impossibly intricate design. In these moments of reflection, the picture is almost clear. What is abundantly clear, to him, is that the scope is far too imaginative to be random. Far too beautiful to be an accident. Times like these, he feels like he can almost see it all, almost grasp some fundamental--
“Oi! Cutey!” A loud, feminine voice cuts through reverie. “You awake or wot?”
Dillon's eyes snap open, but it's with a gentle calm that he looks sidelong to the source of the charmingly Aussie accent. A fairly tall, slim blonde stood there, looking gypsy in a long skirt and a bandana tying her her curls back.
The term Australian Gypsy immediately reminds him of Adonia's intentions to visit the outback. But this woman was no raven haired Gangrel elder, she was just a woman. Still, the coincidence sticks in Dillon's mind.
Mainly because Dillon doesn't believe in coincidences.
“Strong, silent type, eh?”
Dillon busts out his grin, finally, as his brain comes up to speed. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.” But he is unused to being caught on the receiving end like this, and is at a loss for the right line. “Um... Hi?”
“Well, that's betta'” The woman says, leaning on the table with her left hand and offering him her right. “I'm Elsbeth. You from aroun' these parts?” The last word comes out sounding something like 'pahts'.
“Not really, no.” There's a laugh in Dillon's voice as he shakes her hand, keeping his turned under in that old-fashioned way of his. “But I travel a lot, so I'm not really from anywhere, anymore. Nice to meet you Elsbeth, I'm Dillon.”
“Too right, Dillon!” Elsbeth slides into the other side of the booth. “I'm in the same boat, but I guess ya figured that out by th' way I talk.”
The poor thing is awfully confident, the Vampire thinks somberly, she has no idea what she's getting herself into.
Grinning heartily, Dillon nods. “Yeah, it gave you away pretty quick. Accents are sexy, though. What brings you to Sacramento, Elsbeth?” After the period of quiet contemplation, Dillon is feeling exceptionally patient. He would tempt this flesh with his Damned advantage, either proving her divinity or finding the fault in her eager lust. He prays for the former, and preys on the latter.
“Sexy am I?” There's that appraising look in her green eyes, sizing Dillon up with interest. It's too planned, though. Dillon can't help but notice that she's no more surprised by the thought than he is. “You're not so bad y'self, Mister Dillon.
“And I haven't come to Sacramento so much as I'm goin' through it.” Elsbeth pauses long enough to look out the window and back. “Er, tryin' to, anyway.”
Dillon can plainly see his car through the window out of the corner of his eye, it was the very reason he'd chosen to sit where he did. That confirmation is the only thing that keeps him from following her glance. He wasn't too eager to jump on her hook. “Having some kind of trouble?”
Elsbeth issues a groan and drops her forehead to her arms crossed on the table, looking back up to Dillon with an expression of sarcastic disdain. Her face was very expressive, and almost as pretty. The Gangrel wondered if she was fueling her trip with encounters like this. So what's it going to be? Car trouble, most likely. Flat tire? Dead battery? Out of gas?
“Locked m' keys in the farkin' rental car.” One of her hands flip up to add gesture to her speech. “O'course, I picked a company that won't send anyone out 'til morning. So'm gonna be hours late getting' to Reno. But... woteva.” Dillon supposed that meant 'whatever'. The thought struck him that the story and cute accent were both looking less likely to be true by the minute. But if she is a con, her poker face is that of a pro. “At least I gotta nice fella to keep me distracted for a while, eh?”
Dillon shrugs, kind of shyly, but meets her gaze. “I can help get your mind off things, I think. Beer?” He slides his own toward the middle of the table, to see how willing she really was. A real con-artist would have the smarts not to drink from a beer that they hadn't seen come from a bartender or waitress. What if the nice boy across from her was some sort of devious date-rapist?
Which, as a Kindred, he supposed he kind of was.
“Really? Excellent.” With no more preamble than that, she grabbed the bottle and put it to her lips. Tossing the bottle up, she drank several refreshing-looking gulps and plopped it back down. Maybe she really is Australian. Seeming to realize belatedly that it hadn't been drank from until she she just had, Elsbeth offers Dillon a confused look. “'Ey, ya barely touched it.”
As if to take the accusation out of her statement, she takes another sip and offers it back.
“Had a few, already.” Dillon says, holding up a hand that told her to keep it. “I was still debating on that one; how much I wanted it versus how much I'd regret it later. It's probably better if I don't. Help yourself, though.
“Isn't that's how these things are supposed to start? With a guy offering to buy the pretty lady a drink?”
The corners of Elsbeth's lips curl up in as much of a smile as she can manage with the bottle between them again. When she can speak again, it's coy. “Things? Wot things?”
But Dillon isn't offering her sex just yet. With innocence in his voice, he points back and forth to the two of them. “These chance encounters between two strangers on the road, and the conversations we share, that's all. But hey,” the Gangrel says in sudden seriousness, “I feel silly just shooting the breeze with you while you're stranded like this. You want to see if I can get your car open for you?”
“That's sweet of ya, Dillon, but I'm headed f' the Holiday Inn up th' road, there. If ya really wanna help, though,” There's that appraising sort of flirty look again. “You could drop me off.”
Now, Dillon is picturing a big, burly boyfriend waiting in that hotel room she would, no doubt, try to get him in. To rob him, probably. But something didn't add up. This Elsbeth girl was young, college young, like Dillon appeared to be, and seemed far too trusting. She was either very naïve, or very, very good.
“If you insist.” He grins. “Finish your beer, though. I'm in no hurry.”
And that she does, placing the empty bottle on the table with a soft thunk just after. “I believe I do 'ave a guardian angel.”
If the subject of conversation had already been a spiritual one, Dillon might have answered with, 'Of course you do. Not one, but many, whose ability to aid your life depends on your personal relationship with God.' But, so blindsided by her mention of angels, he only cocks an eyebrow.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, I was prayin' for a fella like you. Had to walk from where I left m' car, an' it's so late, I was gettin' scared. S'why I ducked in 'ere.” A pause. It's the first time Elsbeth looks timid. “Thought that's wot you were doin' when I walked up. Prayin'.”
“Pretty much, yeah.” Dillon answers honestly. “I was trying to be sure I could do it among distractions.”
It's her turn to cock an eyebrow, now. “An' I distracted you. What kin'a man prays with a beer in 'is hand?”
“A Catholic?” Dillon shrugs. When the girl laughs, he joins her, but adds. “I'm not Catholic, though. Not exactly. I don't subscribe to a particular denomination.” Not one of Man's anyway. And not one that enjoys the blessing of guardian angels, either.
If an angel guided you anywhere, Elsbeth, why to me? Why a creature of the night who preys on careless people like you. Who's faith is being tested tonight? Mine or yours?
The answer is, obviously, both.
4 Successes
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