“I see the look in your eyes it makes me go blind.”
The whimsical vocals of Ruelle dance graciously through the void of silence, shattering it. She had a pleasantly melodic voice and a way in which she could conduct a crescendo that was simply marvellous and impactful to the song in its entirety. Syn had allowed such music to float through the stiffened air as his form reclined into the softened leather couch, left hand digits curled around a glass of Irish whiskey made by yours truly. With accents of oak, red wine and smoke and the undertones of plasma cascading through the amber liquid, he was quite proud of his creations and its taste.
Relaxed, calm contemplation expressed upon his visage as his eyes fell towards the ornate brass chandeliers and the ornate filigree that wove between each outward stem that was alight with softened amber hues, cascading light across the myriad of items in the bar. But he saw further, he focused on the shadows cast in opposition to the light, the constant cold touch of darkness that befell his innermost desires. He watched the shapes noticing the shadows touch upon every crevice creating a home for itself. A realisation bought forth a soft chuckle as his idle mind contemplated the metaphorical connection between Sabbat and their actions to that of the darkness in the crevices. They spread across this planet, finding corruptible spots and slowly from there they expand, a plague upon the planet.
Contemplative thoughts and relative silence were broken when the sound of heavy footfalls collide across smooth wooden steps, ascending. “Markus, was not expecting you.” Syn’s visage never pivoted from it’s position to see the violent canine as he ascended the steps. “You reek of blood and sulphur.” Syn spoke as the scent assaulted his nostrils, Markus had been in the throes of combat and yet the beast said nothing in response, not yet. Having finally ascended the steps, Markus Matthews relieved himself of his thick coat revealing black tactical vest and torn black button down. Black cargo pants and 511 tactical boots finished the attire of an imposing beast. Born not of kindred blood but that of Garou and danced the nine levels of hell Markus was a ‘fallen.’ With a grunt the brute ignored all sense of refinement and dragged a wooden chair to sit opposite the refined Lasombra Kindred. Straddling it front-to-back, Markus allowed his bulk to collapse upon the wood causing a hushed groan in protest from the wood. “I’ve been busy, The Sabbat have been busy.” He responded, accent thick with the articulations of a Scottish accent.
In response, Syn released a soft sigh before placing his drink down upon a drink stand beside him and rose from his position. “Drink?” He asks out of politeness; however, he knew the Scottish dog couldn’t say no to a single malt whiskey. Syn descended the stairs and towards the bar where sat upon the top due to his prior actions earlier in the evening sat a bottle of his small batch single malt. Taking the bottle and a Riedel crystal glass. Ascending the stairs once more, Syn’s voice rolled across the stifled silence. “What brings you here Markus.” Leaning forward upon the chair, Markus’ mahogany eyes shifted from art piece to art piece before returning towards Syn. “Every time I come here it seems as if your vanity grows, this whole business is a personal fuck fest to your ego.” He said with a wolfish grin revealing the wickedness that lay within. “Starting to think that you’d be better suited as a Sabbat bishop with the way you indulge.” The Garou continued to mock only to receive a narrowing of Syn’s eyes in return.
“I should tear out your tongue.” Syn responded with malice oozing from his mouth before placing the glass and bottle down upon a coffee table before Markus. Shifting to seat himself once more into his seat, more alert however than relaxed. “Now, why are you here Markus.” Markus who had taken the time to pour himself a reasonable glass of single malt felt it. The vitae infused dominance that exuded from Syn, a manipulation that was as subtle or as blunt as the man wielding it wished to be. “You can stop with that.” Markus responded coldly as mahogany eyes shifted to Syn’s own. “Word is that the Sabbat is encroaching on the territories here while they continue to war over San Francisco. I hear they are buying up blue collar businesses like butchers, deli’s and coffee shops.” He paused to inhale a large portion of the amber liquid in the glass which threatened to shatter in his inhumanely large hands. “Why are you telling me this?” Syn responded, fingers knitting together subconsciously within his lap. “They cannot afford a war here as they have in San Francisco.” Markus’ eyes shift towards his glass as a soft grin spreads across his lips. “No, but our Hive is looking to expand here, and you know our ties to the Sabbat.”
Syn understood now, Markus was alerting of a possible war between Garou and his kin bought about by the manipulations of the Sabbat. Perhaps there was still a reason he kept the fallen on his retainer. Leaning forward Syn looked Markus up and down. “I have sent my greeting cards to the Baron and a respected member of the Camarilla. I shall see what they know because I will not allow my new home to be accosted by the doomsday fanatics. If your kin arrive, then so be it but not under the manipulative hands of the Sabbat.” Syn snarled the final worlds as anger gave way from his usual stoic controlled dominance. “Find out what you can for me, look after yourself Markus.”
Finishing his drink, the bulking mass of muscle and ferocity that was the black spiral dancer rose from the seat quietly. “My life is not for living carefully but I will report once I know more.” With a two finger wave the goliath of a man descended the stairs, coat in hand and headed towards the rear exit of the Gallery.