"I hope you understand how difficult this is for me," I called to the thus far nameless kindred, "I've been out of the loop for the better part of twenty years."
"I'm sure this was a tough choice," he said sarcastically form his chair by the bed, "join or die? Most people would still be scratching their heads."
I had convinced him that I needed to pack, and lured him back to my room. I was now loading my assortment of clothing into my suitcase. I pulled a shirt from the drawer and said, "So, what clan are you? Ventru? Gangrel?"
"Brujah," he reveled begrudgingly.
"Huh. I've known only a few Brujah, but for the most part they ware good conversationalists, if only a little single minded."
I pulled another article of clothing from the drawer, slowly making my way to the bottom.
"Handy in a fight though," I commented cheerfully, spreading the false, 'absent minded' look across my face," What are their disciplines? Potence, Fortitude... what else? I know there's another... Auspex?"
"Presence," he corrected.
"Ah, presence. Helpful little ability, thought about looking into it myself. Never would have learned it from a Brujah though," I said, just chattering away "probably a Toreador, or maybe even one of the princes, you know, someone I could kill easily if they get too uppity."
He laughed at this. So he thought violence was funny? Get ready to laugh big boy.
"But then again, the Brujah Antitribu aren't so tough either. Got one way back, name of McGregor. He was a smart guy, a thinker, which means he died quickly. Cane through the heart, teeth in the neck, none too hard." I risked a glance at him, revealing a small grin he had on his face. My words were getting to him. It's hard not to like a Ravnos when we want you to.
"You know, back before I got picked up by the Cammies," he said, seemingly cooled down from the ice that had been broken, "just after my siring, hit the frenzy, right? Grabbed a Malkavian, squeezed, and popped his head clean off his shoulders. Sire had to pin me down to keep me from lapping up the 'crazy juice' as he referred to it."
I pulled out my last pair of pants, finally coming to what I had been digging for; my black case. I began my life as a hermit, but I had always known I would need my 'effects' as they were known. Everything I had carried on me was in this box, save for my cane and my clothes, which I wore now. And yet, the box itself, not what lay within, was what I had dug for.
"Good times, good times," I chuckled to my escort. "Hey, Rabble Rouser, can you give me a hand with this chest? Put that Potence to good use."
"Sure thing," he replied, hefting himself from the small chair, "not like presence will do any good here."
He crossed the way, and I stepped to the side, saying "Potence and presence? No fortitude?"
He leaned in, grabbing the handle of my box, "never learned it. Only those who don't trust in their own strength rely on..." he stopped midsentence. A dumb look spread across his face, as did a red bloom across his shirt. The tip of a stake protruded from his chest, the handle gripped tightly in my hand.
"There are those who would disagree with that assessment," I commented calmly, stepping out of the way as he tumbled to the floor. Frozen shock still, he was still able to pack a ton of hatred into his immobile eyes.
I lifted my box out of his frozen hands, and set it on my bed. The locks popped open smoothly, as easily as the day I bought it. Resting within, were my babies. First and foremost to catch my eye was my bottle of blood. It was a hipflask from my living days, always a preferred part of my apparel. The particular blood it held within was of a drugstore clerk, harvested moments before he OD'd. There was enough poison in this little flask to down a hell hounded elephant.
The second was the only piece of clothing that I had given up in my solitary confinement; my cape. Black silk, and as old as I was, this had also been from my days as a living man. I had gone nowhere without it, and I had gone a lot of places. It was both fashionable, and functional, serving as sort of a portable blanket. I had stowed it away, because I was hiding. A cape would stand out more than I already did, I didn't need MORE attention.
And, last, but by no means least, stacked among a multitude of ammunition, was my savor outfitted, 22 round per second burst, kickback reeducating, top of the line, AA12 'Aodh O'matic' shotgun. This little baby had gotten me out of more than a few tight spots, and had seen action in all ways, from 5th gens to blood beasts. In the time it took the average person to say 'oh crap' it could reduce them to no more than a memory, and a splatter on the floor. Just looking down at it got me pumped up to get back in action, the stains along its barrel bringing back more memories than a preschool to a catholic priest.
I quickly equipped these things, leaving nothing but the ammo in the box. The gun was held on a strap over my shoulders, and the flask was tied to my belt. Two extra clips of ammunition were held in pockets hidden within the cape.
"If you see McGregor," I said to the Brujah on the carpet, "tell him that I'm putting his Discipline to good use."
