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    1. The Whacko 11 yrs ago
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Very much in.
@Decius Shade
Works for me, boss.
Dibs on giant brute right hand...who may or may not be more clever than he let on.
I am very interested. :)
(Collab between Grec and I.)

It took Darby only a moment to remember the creepy son of a bitch's stubborn refusal, or perhaps inability, to speak, and the neonite sighed and grabbed for the patch-covered leather cut thrown across one arm of the worn couch. He was pretty sure he was never going to understand Nagloper.

"Alright, lead the way." The biker said, slipping on the vest and a pair of riding gloves. Darby walked out of the apartment and into the alleyway, where the giant bat-monster landed. The Sheriff reverted back to his human form, the term "human" being used very loosely to describe the 9 foot tall monster vampire. The Sheriff led Darby through the alleyways of Downtown L.A until he reached Venture Tower, and they went in through the back entrance as to not attract attention. They went up the elevator to the penthouse floor and saw Lacroix waiting for them.

"Ah, mister Darby I presume. The Camarilla has an important mission for you. We need you to retrieve the Ankaran Sarcophagus." Lacroix said. Darby had to struggle to keep the scowl from his face as he listened to Lacroix's 'hail fellow, well met' heartiness, arms folded over his chest. Oh, Lacroix could play up the Camarilla's act of all Kindred being equal, but he couldn't hide the edge in his tone, the contempt he had for the Brujah fledgling from his eyes. He'd never liked to suffer fools or the bourgeois cunts who treated him like shit they'd scrape off their shoe, and he normally would have happily put a few teeth down their throat. A Camarilla Prince, however, was not the normal sort, and even he wasn't stupid enough to invite that kind of trouble for sake of sticking it to the man. Still, he felt the need to slight him somehow, and was preparing to light up a cigarette when Lacroix gave him his job. The smoke fell from his lips.

"Are you shittin' me right now?" He said, beady eyes narrowing at the prince. This was either a test or a trap, and either way he didn't like where this was going. "You want me to fetch a goddamn sarcophagus?"

"The Sacrophagus is hidden deep within the Museum. You are not to kill any of the security guards there, we can't have mortals knowing the existence of the supernatural. Now, be off" Lacroix said, apparently content to leave it at that.Darby's eyes narrowed again, trying to read the man's face as he spoke. He couldn't keep the scowl from his face now.

"Why me? Way you're talkin' it sounds like this is the biggest find of the goddamn century. Like you oughta be sendin' some big badass like the sheriff here. So why ya sendin' me, the poor ol' neonite Brujah that's barely been Kindred for two years?"

"We need someone who can be inconspicuous. My Sheriff's skill set isn't exactly specializing in subterfuge. Now go." Lacroix said. Translation: "You're expendable, and I don't want to waste anyone I actually give a shit about on this."

Darby grunted shortly, reaching down to pick up his fallen smoke, striking a match to light it as he nodded up to the Prince. He really hated that frigging smug, oh so punchable face.

"Yessir, your highness." He said, his tone far from deferential as he started to walk out of the office. Well, he'd enjoy seeing that smug melt off the fucker's face when he came back with the sarcophagus. And this would be a great opportunity to see how his wraith did on the job...
....so this is a bust, then?
@Grec

Darby smelled and heard The Sheriff long before he saw him, and the neonite swore as he straightened up and set the rather evil-looking tome aside, straightening out his shirt as much as he could to try looking presentable. Considering his manner of dress; a black sleeveless shirt with a faded, white horned skull on the front, camo fatigues tucked into a pair of tall riding boots, it was probably a moot gesture. Still, he had to try, if for nothing else but appearances. When the bat came into view, offered a short, respectful nod, much as it grated his ego to do so.

"Evenin', Sheriff." He drawled, the thick Southern accent bearing a notable Louisiana twang. He stood to look the bat in the eye, though he kept his hands right a this side, in plain view. "To what do I owe th' pleasure've yer company?"

The Camarilla were hardly his favorite people, and he was right there with the Anarchs when it came to what he thought of their roll, he knew that they were the ones in charges, and that they had more than enough power to stake him and leave him for the sun. Plus, they knew about Cheyenne, and the little conscience he had left demanded he protect her. So he stood there, waiting patiently for the bat to give him his orders.
Completed.

And now I'm tempted to roll a gruff, if noble Captain Pellaeon type along...
Clarence Darby's lair was a true study in contrasts; The carpet and much of the furniture in the small, semi-abandoned ghetto apartment were spotted with oil and grease, the imprints of various mechanical parts still visible in the black smudges. Empty beer bottles, all left by Cheyenne of course, were scattered around the kitchen and living room, and the ashtray on their coffee table was overflowing with cigarette butts. Few would assume it to be more than the home of some White trash squatter...at least until they entered the bedroom.

The apartment's sole bookshelf was stocked with occult texts, both of mundane and of real substance, and the various little ritual components were aligned with surprising neatness compared to the rest of the vampire' home. The long work table was similarly topped with ghoulish tools, and the bloodstains spotting it's worn wood spoke to it's regular use. Practice made perfect, after all, and necromancy required a lot of practice.

At the moment the Brujah was hunch over one of the older texts, the scent of grave dirt and old bones thick on the tome, his gloved hands working over the pages with tender care. He'd gotten used to those sorts of smells over the last five months, working under the Samedi's tutelage, and it was hardly the strangest of things he'd adjusted to. After all, he drank blood like he had booze not too long ago, and he could break anyone in his old MC in half with his pinkie. He'd taken to it all well as a predator.

Of course, there was the Camarilla, though, and they were always a pain in the ass to deal with, and now he'd heard some stirrings that someone had made a big find in the city. He just knew that Lacroix would be siccing him on that. He shook his head and went back to his study. The sheriff would probably be paying him a visit sooner or later with a new errand from Lacroix, so he had to soak up as much as he could before he'd be dragged off to deal with whatever bullshit the prince had going.

Well, every great power came with a price, after all.
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