#* tate

Tate Emerson - Style

“Nobody came here to listen to you fucking idiots have a pissing contest over territory.” Tate’s sharpened tone snapped out of the dark corner as if he’d never been there in the first place. Lingering quietly in watch of those that staggered into the information center, unwilling to allow the refuge to become an open ring. “Take to your own corners, or we take it outside.” He spits the threat through grit teeth, “Just the three of us,” a blade tucked into the palm of his hand flicked out on a razors edge as he stepped forward, “There’s fucking kids here, give it a rest.”

The shit eating grin that plastered his features once hues landed on Grace was one that he’d offer no apology for. It’d been a while since he’d been on the island, but the Williams were undoubtedly two people that he’d never begin to forget. Especially, Grace in a dress. “Well, fuck. Is this really all it’d ever take for you to dress up?” The short huff of deep laughter leveled out as he descended the stairs and met her at the poker table, his hip lent against the mahogany, “You look like a bond villain, you know that?”

“I get that this is all for your sisters and whoever else,” he’d heard about some ritual - about the sacrifices made to right some terrible wrong that swept over the island, but in truth, he didn’t care to learn any of the details, “But are you really sure we should be trusting the entire fucking island to be under these pricks roof?” It was one thing, to celebrate some kind of win, if that’s how they wanted to look at it, but to disregard the nature of the marzan’s entirely and trust them after.... how long? “This feels fucking wrong, Jessie.”

Even with a few drinks in his belly, Tate had never really been the type to relax. Always on alert, whether that be through observation or his sense of hearing - everything going on around him was always worth noting. Fortunately for him, it made him a little less approachable than he’d ever wanted to be and the empty spaces beside him weren’t exactly something he worried over. Familiarity in his sense however, held a tightening knot in the back of his neck that ticked over at the approach of another, the witch in question, a bitter taste on his tongue. “You pull that hoodoo shit on me again and I promise you I have no issue putting a few slugs in your skull in return, even with the audience.” 

Irritation surfaced in the slight jiggle of his knee, rattling against the leg of his chair and the weave of the old, bloodied coin back and forth between his fingers. Tate had made it absolutely clear, he had no fucking interest in attending the marzan wank fest. A sly opportunity to grant themselves and the council the credit that certainly wasn’t theirs to take and a show of peace among the island - as if the weeks prior hadn’t flooded the streets with the blood of their own. “Remind me again, why the fuck we’re here?” He grunted out, tapping the coin against the wooden arm before he tucked it back into his jacket pocket. Rubbing arms with the lot of them made his skin crawl, and that was without taking into account how much he hated being touched.