notes: incoherent yelling by moi
Karaoke’s not necessarily something Salvador, ever the perfectionist, is interested in. Whatever talents and strengths he had did not extend to his voice but powerful creatures filtered through these doors, a seemingly quaint and casual place festered with potent and ancient influence. As a Marshal, and given the revolving door of the Senate as of current, he’s really only meant to place governance over his own species but Salvador had been known to shepherd around others, turn a blind eye as long as the benefits were heartily placed in favor of the Lush. He’d been on a gluttonous path, power and influence at his fingertips despite never having a pedestal to stand on in lieu of the politics. It was preferable that way, no puerile chatter; he had smarts but even in his mortal life Salvador was more of a craftsman than a politician. Creator, preserver, even destroyer; he’d been all of these things. A scourge of swarming pests, the genesis of a new life for his progeny. Some things fell to the wayside in his blinded grasp for power and gluttony, though the Lush always looked forward, he never imagined to stare his mistakes stark in the face.
Death had once ferried Salvador on a promise to something more substantial; bestowed a Pluto. But what the Lush had done to Amara, the velvety sweetness of her blood, it had turned a vampire weaned on control into something monstrous. Her death had been upon his hands and through his perks as a Marshal, he’d hidden the collateral of his decisions. Seeing her waxen familiarity settle down at one of the various tables, it’s startling but Salvador has always ebbed on a line of unreadable control, it was a necessity in lieu of his dedication to the Senate’s laws. Salvador approaches the table in spite of his best interests to keep the past buried, in spite of the ache it delivered within, hands casually stuffed in pant pockets, louche and charming as needed to be.
There was a break in the live ‘talents’ that put themselves at the mercy of Hell’s Bells audience, and recorded tracks filtered through the space instead. “Do you mind if I sit?” He’d save the accusations for later, for it stung the Lush more than he’d ever admit when Amara turned and seemed not to recognize him at all.
