* memory seeker.

Independent Roleplay Blog for Beckett from Vampire: the Masquerade.

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          @seekersanguis​

He didn’t know why Isaac wanted him in the jewellery shop, probably to discuss or scold him over the recent Parasite Studios incident or maybe even talk of the supposed coffin that had apparently gotten everyone riled up.

Ash hadn’t noticed that at all.

Upon door opening and the figure entering not belonging to his sire, Ash couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy, as he had somewhat planned a rant for Isaac to hear.

“Who the hell are you?” 

Beckett is standing, of course, taking in the carved out piece of the Golden Age of Hollywood in the back of a fine jewelry store. Certainly it's his favorite era, and movies haven't quite had the same impact on him since. Not that has has much time to devote to such things, what with the near constant wandering. Perhaps Cesare can be of some help with the laptop again.

His thoughts are interrupted by a quite abrupt and rather rude entrance from someone distinctly not Isaac Abrams. Beckett quirks an eyebrow, just barely visible over the rim of his sunglasses.

The neutral set of their features flutters, their mouth slashing into a half-formed, soundless snarl, caught and rectified before the first flashes of teeth. Beckett prods at things he scarcely understands, and they do not doubt it is with purpose. Prospero and his ties to the Inconnu earn their enmity with reason.

“Was that Ameirin, or was that your wishful thinking?”

There is nothing they, Vykos and Beckett, accomplish together that Vykos cannot do alone. This they remind their insufferable guest several times before this very night. They realize that might only fuel his self-importance.

Beckett does not flinch. He does not take a step backwards. Something inside him stirs, of course, running through the multitude of possibilities of horror Vykos could inflict upon him (horrors he has faced at the hands of another Tzimisce). But as quickly as it comes, it's shoved down for carefully barbed wit.

Perhaps it wasn't a fluke that Vykos seems more mild mannered these nights. As mild mannered as any Kindred can be, that is.

“My observation. I'm sure you recall Rasputin.”

Vykos watches in return, the only movement in the contemplative silence they allow to settle. The vain might find their egos appeased by these acknowledgements, but centuries crossing Beckett’s path teach a valuable lesson in his tactics.

That those who believe he is no longer a threat are the most susceptible to his end goal.

As fortune would have it, Vykos has no particular use for vanity.

However, they do not believe Beckett intends to make off into the night with the artifacts in question. There are other factors that assure them of that much.

“You and I both know research requires more time than that. How long do you propose this ‘consultation’ lasts?”

There lies the issue—there's no love lost between the two of them. Certainly, if they could, they'd both be long gone already with the relics in tow. Beckett resigns himself to the unknown.

“As long as necessary,” he concedes. “It seems as though Prospero was right about one thing: we're to be each other's shadow.”

Perhaps it's not necessary to say that. Perhaps it's not even a little wise to bring it up considering all that Prospero said and did. But to do anything less would be disingenuous, and they are after all working together in the spirit of cooperation. Beckett lies to himself, a skill he finds more and more useful in current nights.

Beckett is correct in precisely one way. This is not a matter of convincing anyone, plying them with appeals and speeches, hoping that one yields a favorable result. The truth is much simpler than that.

This is a matter of intent.

Vykos bears in mind a growing curiosity – that Beckett, not for the first time, turns to them when his options come up short.

“Our truce.” They taste the phrase on their tongue. It is reminiscent of poison in ways they do not understand. “When the research is complete, what becomes of the relics then?”

He watches them. Vykos is not particularly emotive or easy to read. However, one thing he has always been keen to recognize is their ire. There's, luckily, none of that yet—not like the many times he believes he's passed them in their various similar circles with altered looks and a glare that would wither all the flowers in a garden.

Beckett matches their expression with a sharp one of his own, peering at them with unnaturally bright red eyes over the edge of his sunglasses. He has no desire to see anymore previous relics of their woefully under researched past to be squirreled away into some warded haven.

“I don't think we do,” he says. “I doubt I could convince you to part with anything,  mind you.”

Beckett has not embraced any childer. He was more or less left on his own by his sire, and then betrayed by his adoptive one. He has frequently made his thoughts about ghouling and the treatment they receive well known (even if he is a hypocrite and keeps his own ghoul). Why would that not also extend to childer?