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Storyteller: "Messenger from Lodin, yanking Modius' chain," Tyrell replies at once. "The Big Man likes to make everyone else feel small so he doesn't get scared about how big his **** is. Probably had more to it than that, but we'd've had to stick around long enough to hear what she said - or how Modius reacted - to guess what, I think."
Storyteller: Tyrell shakes his head. "Did I ever actually say I was an Anarch?" Moving quickly past the rhetorical question, he continues, "Mac sent me here to help support you against Lodin. Modius is small potatoes, but hates Lodin as much as we do. He'd be useful as a weapon, someone we could play against Chicago - if we worked together."
Storyteller: Tyrell ignores Juggler's question for the moment, answering Evelyn instead. "I followed you because your boy and I need to have a talk. About coordination, planning, and not starting s*** while I'm in the damn crossfire." He watches the businesses and streets flash by, shaking his head. "You know how close you were to the Blood Hunt tonight." It's not a question. "There were a dozen new Licks in there aching for a shot at your blood and for what? What the hell were you trying to accomplish?"
Storyteller: Tyrell climbs in, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about where this night is taking him. Too late now. I'm in, for whatever that's going to end up costing me.
Storyteller: Tyrell follows Juggler out the window, looking around for wandering eyes.
Storyteller: Tyrell bares his teeth, feeling fangs for a moment, then forces them back and quickly but quietly opens the door. "Juggler," he says, "we need to talk."
GM: Tyrell listens hard, expecting to hear the squeal of tires or the breaking of glass to indicate Juggler's continued flight.
Works for me, boss. I'm in a very... odd... position at the moment, to be sure.
Tyrell looks around the room, seeing Annabelle walk in, then swears to himself. Calling upon the power of his Blood, he too sprints after Juggler down the hallway.
Tyrell can feel the Beast rising again, and for a moment he stands on the razor's edge between blood fury and Rotschreck, frozen and largely unable to react to outside events. Again, he manages to wrestle down the frenzy, but he knows it will take a miracle to stop it a third time tonight. I should get out of here... but I need to know how this ends! He drops back to stand against a corner, staring at Modius.
Tyrell shakes his head. "I don't know what the-" - and then the lights go out. "...he's talking about." As blind as any of the mortals in the room, Tyrell gropes about for a moment, trying to fine Tyrone's arm. He comes up first with the other man's jaw, mutters an apology, and then relocates his grasp to the right spot. "Stick with me, we'll get clear of this mess."
Tyrell lets out a slow breath, temporarily forgetting he no longer has need of such niceties. You'd better have a damn good reason for this, Juggler, he thinks to himself. Irritatingly, the truth is, he probably does. But would it have been too damn much trouble to tell me about it? He moves over to Tyrone, who is still here and probably a bit confused by what's going on. "Things are probably about to get ugly," Tyrell tells his fellow lawyer. "I know this a%&&%$%, and he and Modius aren't exactly friends. You, ah, might want to finish up your partying for the night somewhere else."
"Chicago's an important town," Tyrell shrugs, "But you know how Lodin is. Whatever else he may be, Modius is at least more.. accomodating."
"I'm sure the stories are just that. For me, Russia's an object lesson in how not to run things anyway. Whatever their intentions, Moscow was never the 'new Carthage' it was promised as." Tyrell shakes his head for a moment before moving on. "I notice you don't seem to have stopped to speak with our worthy Prince."
"They tell me knowledge is power," Tyrell replies evenly, "and that was once my Clan's highest tenet. It's a pleasure, Mr. Danov, and please, call me Tyrell. I couldn't help overhearing the last of your tales - have you actually heard from friends in the Sovie-, er, that is, in Russia since the coup? I've heard some pretty wild stories..."
Tyrell spots the familiar effects on the stranger's audience - he knows that particular Discipline well - and averts his gaze, relying on his sunglasses to hide the rudeness. He waits while the surrounding humans leave, then offers the other man a nod, still staring at his shoes. "Sounds like you've got the advantage of me. I don't think I know your name, but I have been getting the impression I might like to."
Tyrell continues listening to the conversations between Modius and his guests, trying to get a feel for the lay of the land. It seems like many of the locals are, at least in public, willing to support the Prince. As mention is made of disappearing Sires, the lawyer can't help but laugh a bit to himself. No worries about mine disappearing without anyone's knowledge... if Mac were to drop off the earth, the Ventrue would be trumpeting the fact to high Heaven. Seeing as there's at least one man who has not yet presented himself to the Prince, Tyrell decides to go listen in at the Lick who is entertaining all the mortals and, thus far at least, snubbing Modius.
Tyrell makes note of the others greeting Modius - and of the two who do not join him. He catches Sheridan's words and manages to avoid sneering, but only just. He steps aside from Modius' "receiving" line, staying close enough to observe the proceedings without giving any impression of being a member of the Prince's party.
Tyrell frowns in Modius' direction, but this isn't the time to start the war. Not yet. He moves in the Prince's direction. He doesn't wait to be acknowledged, though. "Modius," he nods at the other man... though of course, neither of them is truly a man.
Tyrell slaps Tyrone's shoulder, then pulls out a card and hands it over. "Go on, grab a drink. It's supposed to be a party, after all. And if you need some help at the office, give me a call. There's an office and a pager number on there. I'm usually out of touch in the day, but if you need something after hours, I can probably help you out." Sending the other lawyer on his way, Tyrell turns back to the room, trying to pick out the other Licks from the crowd. Just look for the ones who act like they are trapped in a Jane Austen novel. That's a start anyway.
Tyrell nods. "Modius and I have met," he says carefully, "but I wouldn't call him a friend of the unions. An interested party, to be sure, but I'd walk carefully around him."
"You're not wrong," Tyrell nods fervently, "But there's one more piece. We need to offer an alternative to the street: strong, solid, good-paying jobs that aren't going to disappear. Union jobs. Get our people in there, they have another way to go, and that revolving door can just keep spinning empty."
Tyrell chuckles at Tyrone's phrasing. "Yes indeed, my friend. I'm back. Going to be looking for some friends I can count on round here - you think you're up for it?"
Tyrell takes Tyrone's hand and shakes it hard. "Tyrone, my man," he grins. The mention of the King riots, though, makes the grin disappear fast. "No, though damned if I know what I could have changed if I had. Murder a man in cold blood, get it caught on tape, and walk the f$$& away? That's not the law anymore, that's just the f&*&ing bootheel of the Man." Tyrell steers Anderson toward the bar. "I tell you what, though. I did learn quite a bit out in LA. More than I expected to, in fact. It's given me some ideas about what might change around here. Gonna be a shift in the wind in the Windy City, you get me?"
Tyrell feels the Beast in him snarl, but he forces it back down. Not now. Not tonight. But soon.
Tyrell's car is a '91 Cadillac Seville, dark red, and he generally feels pretty good about it. Now, though, seeing the Prince's mansion and its state of disrepair, he has to wonder if it's maybe too upscale for this crowd. Horse and carriage, maybe. Or sedan chair. He shakes his head, parks, and gets out. As he approaches the door, he nods approvingly at the men watching over the party guests. My people. Well, Modius's people. For now. He stops for a quick handshake and smile at the working men, asking if they need anything, before heading inside. The black man in the tailored suit is an odd match for the union guys, but he speaks the lingo. Soon, though, Tyrell is stepping into the foyer, handing off his long coat to the butler with a bemused expression and heading for the ballroom. He sees Modius, standing amid the dusty statues, and tries not to smirk at the irony, but he knows no one else. Who's the devil in the dress? She looks appealing, and dangerous - which makes her really dangerous, by Tyrell's math. Well, let's get to this. He starts working his way around the room, glad-handing the mortals with the ease of a born politician. ST Sin: Can Tyrell get a read on the attitude of the butler? Toward his job and his treatment tonight especially? Just looking for a "cold read," not a detailed interrogation or the like.
Sorry, was away from the boards for most of the weekend. Getting caught up now! ST Sin: I think I mis-added in the first place. I've dropped Appearance down to 2 for now... though it is a likely target for buying back up with XP once we get going!
I'd definitely rather stay in the Chicago area if I can. I am thinking about taking a Feeding Restriction flaw; we've still got time to fiddle with our sheets, right?
Tyrell takes off his sunglasses, rubs the bridge of his nose for a moment, then puts the shades back on again. "Yeah, I have trouble telling them apart too."
Done, and ready to go. If you have someone in particular for me to be Sired by, Shadow, I can move a dot or two around if you need.
Crunch is still in progress, but the mortal history is basically done. Trying to emphasize a bit why this guy is a Brujah, despite the JD and Bar license. |
