Haunting About

[Dean]

After leaving the spectacle of the Grindhouse, Anton Flores wandered to the rack. It was time to feed at long last. Seemed like weeks since he's let his Sin drain that good samaritan. It was Saturday, so he waited outside Asylum, clearly an arena for degenerates and derelicts to cavort under the facade of 'being liberated'. He saw doughy civil servants, who'd stuffed themselves into latex and rubber; all dressed up with no place to go, spiritually speaking. The Haunt watches those leaving and idling about the mouth of Asylum, ticking off his criteria for sustenance. Too drunk. Plainly tweaking. Probably thirteen. Amongst friends. He lurks at a bus stop, selecting his prey, considering what religous context their fates might fall into.

He appears in the same dishevelled shortsleeves, slacks and tie from the Grindhouse, though the recent press of other Beasts leave his fingers unconsciously curling into bony hooks and a slack, smiling mouth twitching faintly.

[Dean]

With a jerky twist, Anton's attention snaps from the gallery of human offal congregating across the street onto Harry Walsh. The Haunt's Beast crackles like kindling under an atrophied heart, stoking a desire to cast down and defile. He ignores it, recognising the man, offering him a smiling nod. He speaks with a haggard yet oily voice.

"Brother Walsh, was it? Evening, there. Tonights happenings? Seemed a peacocks pageant, to this sinner before you. That was at first. Seemed, by the meat of the affair, that I'd blown on in during uncertain times, what with that reshuffle. The punchline? Well, ain't immolation just a 'blink and miss' brand of theatrics?"

Anton loosens his tie with an arm of tapestry flesh. His eyes are on Harry, glinting with hunger.

"How about you, Brother? What'd you make of it?"

[Dean]

Anton's eyes follow the assembly line of vessels as he nods, causing wound of his throat to contort like a milk-white Rorschach test. An arm comes up to present the nightlife of Sacramento. It's an amorphous enigma, riddled with cyphered messages of Damnation, old and exalted. Anton's voice drops to a low whisper.

"I strive to be uglier than these Roman times. To be the Sinner's mirror. Something Man can look upon and see something he don't want to see. Something that's been burning since this world's been turning. Something like where he's headed. Seems these nights he don't even want to look. So I find myself wanting to deliver him my own self. You ever feel like that, Brother?"

[Dean]

The slack smile stretched across Anton's nodding head spreads an iota, causing it to twitch slightly. His arm comes down and his brings his voice above the crackling whisper.

"That's right, Brother. Nightmare. Made flesh. That's exactly it. That face of torment. That..."

Stopping abruptly, Anton pulls himself from the brink of another tirade and straightens his tie again. He tilts his head downwards slightly, as though there's a lick of embarassment to him.

"But it's plain I'm preaching to the choir here and for that I apologise no end. Been away from that dark choir so long that the truth just up and decided to gush on out of me. How about you, Brother? What brings you out here?"

[Premsyl]

"I know that feeling, of which you speak."

His voice is heard before he can be seen, a hideous walking monolith coalescing from the shadows wearing a spattered green raincoat.

"Except I don't care what the Kine see when they look upon me. I know what I am, even if they do not. Superior. Greater by virtue of my preadatory nature. You may say it was God who gave me this power, and you may be right, but it makes no difference to me."

He regards the kindred, the beast roiling and pulling beneath the surface. He orders it silent. He smiles, revealing fangs that glint beneath the shadowed hood of the raincoat. "Good evening, to the both of you."

[Dean]

Anton's brow furrows for a second. He doesn't balk at the enormous newcomer and the Beast doesn't tug at it's many hooks. It was difficult to recognise him under that hood and that raincoat, but Anton was reasonably sure he'd heard that voice among those fellow Nosferatu seeking acknowledgement.

"Was that his name? I'd echo what my peer here just spoke and remind you that power lent was the least of what God wrought upon you, but I just did that, so I'll introduce myself. Anton Flores. A good evening to you."