Birdboy — Roleplayer Guild

Rally groaned when she saw Deadalus rush off into battle like a whirling dervish of destruction. Her intentions of being a shield for her squad had been sullied in seconds, the mounted vehicles already pounding the allied vehicle with damage. Her focus was on the myrmidon, though, knowing her vehicle was far less effective against a faster, more maneuverable one. With a puff of steam from her exhaust, her mech buckled down into a fighting stance, moving to grab the blade from its back.

"Activating Ener-sabre," The voice inside her mech proclaimed as the sword's edge came to life with energy, illuminating her mech inside the thick jungle canopy. A flip of a switch, slamming a lever forward, and the thrusters on the back of her mech burst to life, eviscerating nearby flora as enough force was made to push the clunky Valkyrie forward.

Her myrmidon lacked the precision movement the Sparos had, and she knew this. A full frontal assault, however, she was banking on the speed of her thrusters to compensate for maneuverability. Valkyrie's feet shredded through the soft pommus of the jungle floor as she jettisoned forwards towards the enemy, blade gripped in both hands. As she neared the enemy, she thrust her blade forward, attacking the arm currently raising a side arm at her ally. 

"Come on, fucker, not now!"

      In the hushed streets of Riverside's urban sprawl, a car's engine sputters and groans in a vain attempt to reignite life within itself. A key twisted over and over, reliving the agony that would be cruel to a living being, pulses of life pushed into a dying heart. This was the predicament a dead man named Drake found himself in on the war-torn streets of Riverside. After a final attempt to twist the key, he slammed his fist into the door, unintentionally shattering the window regulator to bits. It took everything within him not to rage further, but the reminder of what could be watching kept him from lashing out. Instead, he stepped out of the clunker he called a car (an old, beat-up Chrysler). He carefully closed the door gently, knowing any amount of force from his inhuman strength might be too much.

He stepped to the hood and lifted it. His tools were already nearby; this had been a fairly regular issue for him. He did not use them, though, instead all but ripping the spark plugs free from their position and rubbing them across his stained and tattered hoodie. It would be the closest he would get to cleaning them off for now. inserting them back in, he ran back to the driver's side and plunged his key in, twisting it and twisting his fingers in his other hand. The engine sputtered and groaned, but with a sudden rush, the engine sprang to life. Drake pumped his fist but quickly slammed the door and pumped the gas. He was already running late, and he had learned better than to keep his elders waiting. His engine popped and roared as he took off due north.

The closer he got to his destination, the more anxious he became. Was he being followed? What powers would other vampires have that he did not? Why did they need some nobody fledgling, for this war? Thoughts like this made him wish he could light a cigarette without his inner beast throwing a fit. Eventually, he pulled his car to the side a good block away from the destination. After taking a few seconds to gather his courage, he stepped out, locked the vehicle, and moved towards the warehouse with urgency. He kept his eyes ever turning, staring at every shadow, and his ears flickered with every noise.

Enter Drake Delores, small-time crook and newly indoctrinated Neonate. To any unsuspecting fool, he would look like another bum on the West Coast searching for work. His clothes were tattered: a beat-up and stained hoodie, and a pair of jeans that would make goths envious. His hair was a greasy mess, even if he couldn't sweat anymore. To those in the know, he was a freshly minted killing machine, an outlander with little regard for rules and the disciplines of a warrior. As he entered the building, though, the pretenses of a man dropped. His eyes blared red like a nocturnal hunter. It was refreshing not to have to worry about a breach of masquerade. He was among his kind here, among kindred, even if it sickened him to think this way. 

He couldn't help but sneer indignantly when he saw the only person awaiting him, a single woman. He did not want to be here; it wasn't his war, and he wanted no part in it. However, even a fledgling knew better than to talk back to their superiors. Ezra was more than a superior; she was a threat. Even the Gangrels who had taught him warned him not to get on her bad side. Unfortunately, Drake's mouth tended to speak on its own. He ran his fingers across the built-up dust on a nearby shelf as he spoke.

”Nice place, are you renting?"

Nervously, he shifted, knowing it would be better not to linger on his jeering. Instead, he stood at attention, straightening out and trying to seem more intimidating than he ever could be.

“I'm Drake, how can I be of help for the cause”
 
He added quickly, an attempt at being hospitable. It would have done him well to learn the etiquette of the Kindred Society, but he hardly had manners for a human. It wasn't natural to him, but he had to try.

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