Outside the club, a loud chopper swooped into the lot off of 15th street, carrying on it a woman, still new to town, who needed to find out what was what. She knew, or at least was pretty sure, that more... stationary kindred frequented bars and clubs to hunt. The rack, she recalled. Whatever they called it, Miranda was here now.
Stepping off her bike after parking, she shoved the keys into her pocket. The night felt nice, but she kept it away from her as best she could. Her usual revealing outfit was bundled beneath layers of heavy road leathers, complete with a leather coat, zipped almost all the way up to the top. Only the faintest hint of her prodigious cleavage, a faux-silver crucifix resting between her breasts.
Boot heels clacking along the pavement, the woman entered the bar, reminding herself to breath and draw in the scent of the crowds and the bar. As she made her way to the smaller bar, she forced some of the precious blood she still had in her system to fill out her features, warming her cheeks and doing a fine enough job of making her look like she wasn't a walking corpse.
She felt nervous, knowing that there were likely to be other of her kind here, although she wasn't certain. And she knew that the handgun in her waistband wasn't enough to stop a pissed off Kindred.
"If only I had learned to grow claws like the others..." she mused to herselfas she climbed slowly into a barstool.