The Reeve's office is filled with the soft sounds of Boston, this evening. Dillon doesn't play the music loudly, because the door is open. A silent invitation to whomever is in the area that decides they would like a word with him.
He isn't sitting behind the large, dark-stained oak desk at the moment, but in one of a pair of squashy dark leather couches that face each other. Dillon's tastes aren't particularly refined, but they are old-fashioned sometimes. Feet clad in dress boots are propped on a black coffee table, while he quietly reads a novel. Thunderhead, by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child.
Dillon is only about a quarter of his way through it, and seems to be marking references for further interest or research; a much-used notebook sits on the cushion beside him. Though he is completely focused on what he is doing, he can be heard quietly humming along with the music. Even subconsciously making the words with his lips.
Tonight, he he is not dressed for Court. There is only a simple long sleeved brown shirt and jeans. Said sleeves are rolled casually to the thick part of his forearm. Very casual, for him. Especially in the Avalon underground. Either he has something else planned for later, or had simply been hunting somewhere that required a more muted appearance. He might be simply an average Joe with nothing to better to do with his time.
But the Gangrel's Beast eliminates any doubt to the nature of the predator. It is bored, and anxious. Pacing around Dillon's psyche, ever growling with all three voices, dripping strings of hot saliva that hiss on the red coals at its feet. It isn't terribly hard for Dillon to picture the thing striding in slow, deliberate circles around the perimeter of the couches.
In fact, picturing it in this way helps him separate the hellhound from his thoughts to some degree.
And most importantly, ignore it.
His hand is on the leash, but that is it.
Draft this Post
