06-30-2014, 10:24 AM
Continued from Let the show begin
Hood hadn't dallied in that shit club for long. After Jaxxen left, Hood excused himself from the ladies and took his leave. The music was garbage, the atmosphere brutally shallow, and the company entirely boring. Not the sort of place where a good brawl was likely to break out, and the only enjoyable about one happening in a place like that was watching all the rich boys try to fight. Oh sure, most of them claimed to practice some sort of martial art, but none had actually thrown a punch in anger before, and it always turned into some pansy hair-pulling homo-erotic roll-about on the floor.
The transition from shit-club to his place was a quiet one. He didn't bother with a driver to take him back, relying instead on the metro, holding some hope that some shitbird would try jacking his wallet or mugging him. But he got none of that, just an awkward conversation with an old woman rambling on about the good old days. Not a bad conversation really, and Hood put on his 'charming' face for it. No reason to be mean to a crazy old lady, right?
It took a few hours to get back, but it was still easier then trying to drive from the heart of Moscow to the outer slums. Traffic was always thick in Moscow. He did his usual circuit, walking the perimeter of his place, making sure there was no obvious signs of recent activity, then a similar circuit inside. The three dogs were present as usual, huddled under the front porch and away from the cold. They were out of the wind, and it was a fairly tight space, so they were well insulated enough to survive the night without too much gripe.
Like was proper, Hood discarded his suit and saw it properly hung. A solid half hour was spent just making sure it was free of debris, stains, and wrinkles before it was set into it's suit-bag, ready to be carted off to the dry cleaners the next day, leaving him in a pair of sweatpants and little else.
The accommodations were kept cold; Hood could easily stomach a chill room, and there was no point in jacking up the heating bill. He hadn't made any major changes with the place now that the renovations were complete. The smell of fresh paint had faded, replaced with that of gun oil and a general sense of clean. The place was spotless, kept neat and tidy and hardly a speck of dust to be found. He wasn't the sort to sit idle, after all.
By then, Jaxen was either in a shall grave or had made good his escape. The man was a slimy one, and had someone survived as long as he had less from personal skill and more for luck and opportunity. Hood could attest to that luck, considering the last time he had met the man had been in the undercity, on the menu for some Rougarou.
Or, maybe they had come to realize that not everything the Atharim said was evil was actually evil. The man was greasy, sure, but about as harmless as any other spoiled rich kid. He somehow doubted they had come to that conclusion though. He had no trouble killing folks, he just generally preferred a good reason. Like they were trying to kill him, or were at the least dangerous. Wasn't any fun otherwise. Some folks out there considered humans the ultimate prey, but Hood considered them not worth the effort.
He walked barefoot into the chill night with some leftovers and a bowl of water, which were stuffed under the porch for the fleabags. The water would be frozen by morning, but they'd be able to get their fill before then.
Then he just stood on his porch, nothing but sweat pants and a cigar, puffing away and surveying the dark neighborhood around him. He made a point of not smoking inside; it was just bad manners, even in one's own home.
His phone, not a Wallet but an actual dedicated cellphone (outdated, but harder to track then a Wallet, and cheaper to toss and replace), disturbed his moment of calm and he dug it out of the pocket of his sweats, glancing at the unregistered number code before answering. The news was less then pleasing. It was all code of course, but the gist of it was a hunter was wounded. And if the voice was that Seth fellow, it probably meant that Rune was the one that was hurt.
He'd have the place ready for them when they arrived. A few more puffs of his cigar and he scowled in annoyance before extinguishing it on the rail of the deck. A perfectly good way to ruin a very excellent cigar. He brushed the ash away so it wouldn't stain the wood, then moved inside, where he began readying what he'd need to patch her up.
Edited by Hood, Jun 30 2014, 06:38 PM.
Hood hadn't dallied in that shit club for long. After Jaxxen left, Hood excused himself from the ladies and took his leave. The music was garbage, the atmosphere brutally shallow, and the company entirely boring. Not the sort of place where a good brawl was likely to break out, and the only enjoyable about one happening in a place like that was watching all the rich boys try to fight. Oh sure, most of them claimed to practice some sort of martial art, but none had actually thrown a punch in anger before, and it always turned into some pansy hair-pulling homo-erotic roll-about on the floor.
The transition from shit-club to his place was a quiet one. He didn't bother with a driver to take him back, relying instead on the metro, holding some hope that some shitbird would try jacking his wallet or mugging him. But he got none of that, just an awkward conversation with an old woman rambling on about the good old days. Not a bad conversation really, and Hood put on his 'charming' face for it. No reason to be mean to a crazy old lady, right?
It took a few hours to get back, but it was still easier then trying to drive from the heart of Moscow to the outer slums. Traffic was always thick in Moscow. He did his usual circuit, walking the perimeter of his place, making sure there was no obvious signs of recent activity, then a similar circuit inside. The three dogs were present as usual, huddled under the front porch and away from the cold. They were out of the wind, and it was a fairly tight space, so they were well insulated enough to survive the night without too much gripe.
Like was proper, Hood discarded his suit and saw it properly hung. A solid half hour was spent just making sure it was free of debris, stains, and wrinkles before it was set into it's suit-bag, ready to be carted off to the dry cleaners the next day, leaving him in a pair of sweatpants and little else.
The accommodations were kept cold; Hood could easily stomach a chill room, and there was no point in jacking up the heating bill. He hadn't made any major changes with the place now that the renovations were complete. The smell of fresh paint had faded, replaced with that of gun oil and a general sense of clean. The place was spotless, kept neat and tidy and hardly a speck of dust to be found. He wasn't the sort to sit idle, after all.
By then, Jaxen was either in a shall grave or had made good his escape. The man was a slimy one, and had someone survived as long as he had less from personal skill and more for luck and opportunity. Hood could attest to that luck, considering the last time he had met the man had been in the undercity, on the menu for some Rougarou.
Or, maybe they had come to realize that not everything the Atharim said was evil was actually evil. The man was greasy, sure, but about as harmless as any other spoiled rich kid. He somehow doubted they had come to that conclusion though. He had no trouble killing folks, he just generally preferred a good reason. Like they were trying to kill him, or were at the least dangerous. Wasn't any fun otherwise. Some folks out there considered humans the ultimate prey, but Hood considered them not worth the effort.
He walked barefoot into the chill night with some leftovers and a bowl of water, which were stuffed under the porch for the fleabags. The water would be frozen by morning, but they'd be able to get their fill before then.
Then he just stood on his porch, nothing but sweat pants and a cigar, puffing away and surveying the dark neighborhood around him. He made a point of not smoking inside; it was just bad manners, even in one's own home.
His phone, not a Wallet but an actual dedicated cellphone (outdated, but harder to track then a Wallet, and cheaper to toss and replace), disturbed his moment of calm and he dug it out of the pocket of his sweats, glancing at the unregistered number code before answering. The news was less then pleasing. It was all code of course, but the gist of it was a hunter was wounded. And if the voice was that Seth fellow, it probably meant that Rune was the one that was hurt.
He'd have the place ready for them when they arrived. A few more puffs of his cigar and he scowled in annoyance before extinguishing it on the rail of the deck. A perfectly good way to ruin a very excellent cigar. He brushed the ash away so it wouldn't stain the wood, then moved inside, where he began readying what he'd need to patch her up.
Edited by Hood, Jun 30 2014, 06:38 PM.