a snippet
Obviously I'm thinking about the bitchy vampire.
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The portraits people paint of him always show steely grey-blue eyes, piercing, cold.
You've heard of him, the cold and calculating magistrate Ancunin, whose reputation precedes him. His sentencings are often brutal. Nothing gets by him. People know when they walk in the room and see him, they're fucked. There are portraits of him that reach the paper sometimes, and you can never decide if what you feel when you see them is fear or attraction. The line is blurry, because you know something is off.
He makes headlines. You try to understand the motives. Try to find patterns. You spend your days tending the bar, your nights hunting creeps and goons. Family business and all. The Roadhouse is something of a front. You live in the tiny flat upstairs, so it's an effort not to be seen when your shifts end.
Then one day you're out and about, just running errands, when you turn a corner and clock a group of men hustling out onto the street, all packed in tight around... A man with a familiar head of curls. Shouting erupts and you try to get a closer look, and watch as the man trips over another's foot, but so luckily avoids getting face to face with the cobblestone.
That flash of a second was all it took. The sunlight hit his glasses just the right way, breaking the illusion. His eyes meet yours, just for a second. Those eyes are not what they seem.
Seeing him in person for the first time would have been shock enough, but now you know something you shouldn't.
But there's nothing to do with the information. It could be anything. He's out in the sun. Couldn't be a vampire. Certainly not a drow. Then what?
It's several weeks later that this catches up to you. You've been minding your business. Staying out of trouble, to the degree that aligns with your circumstances anyway. It's not just men with wandering hands or whom accost women you're worried about. They get their share of heat pulling that in the bar. But your hunts - going after rapers, kidnappers - those are the sketchy ones. It should've come as no surprise that it would get noticed eventually, as your successes began to be traced back to you somehow.
You're brought to court to answer for the ones that've gone missing. A little bit vigilante, but the Fists are useless. They don't even set foot in your part of the city more'n once a tenday.
They want your contacts. Who you're working with to find these miscreants. The network you have is broad, given your extended family all lives in various parts of the Gate, and each of them has their own set of people that keep eyes out on things. Your head cook is also proficient in scaring answers out of people, a multitalented man you admire but from a distance. Even the Guild has dipped their toes in your business from time to time, mostly to ensure you're under their thumb and won't go after their own. You would if you didn't know better.
When the room goes silent, that familiar face turns to your own.
