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.