[@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.