The Sun has fled, the darkness enveloping Dallas like a dark leather trenchcoat. It's still early doors for the denizens of the night, though the shady types that come forth only now are starting to wiggle from the woodwork. The Grisly bar is relatively quiet, St Patty's hangovers causing many who might be here to stay well away.
Perched at the bar itself is one Gabriel Rosco. He told himself he's here to scope the place for future reference, but his true aim is oblivion. He's dressed in the remnants of a well-cut suit, though the tie is curled up in his pocket and the suit itself a little rumpled from a full day's wear. Someone went to visit mummy today. In front of him, there is a large whisky. A very large whisky. No drugs today… it's a clean day, as part of the routine to stay unaddicted. Still, he does manage to scan the room as he turns on the bar stool, looking for possible partners into the blissful depths of drunken unconsciousness.
This is far from the side of town in which the new Sheriff prefers to do business, but as some of those in her Area are wont to be elusive, she's come to seek them out. West Dallas is an area she classifies as Werewolf territory, and thus she truly wishes to spend as little time here as necessary.
The door to the Grisly Bar is opened, and in breezes an extremely coiffed and well-made young woman. One who looks far too young to be in the establishment. Her outfit exudes elitism, with it's business cut fit, even though nearly all the buttons on the blouse are left undone purposefully and the blouse remains artfully covering every little tantalizing piece of her cool flesh.
The young man by the bar, that one with the whisky, certainly takes note as his eyes drift across onto Isobel. A little light flicks on somewhere in his brain. Challenge. Age has little meaning to this particular predator. He leans slightly to one side, the rumpling of his suit neatly covered by the position, and rests an elbow on the bar.
Then he studies Isobel, slowly lifting his drink to his lips and preparing a relaxed, easy, if slightly challenging smile for her when she deigns to spot him.
A slow, icy, even look is given around the disgusting little establishment. Not a singular person in here even remotely resembles Nathaniel Darcy, whom she is supposed to be meeting. A flit of a frown touches her features, then she's striding toward the bar. Her steps carrying her brusquely. A small handkerchief is extracted from the front pocket of her suit jacket, and she wafts it out delicately, placing it upon the stool next to Gabriel. Only then does she deign to seat herself, body facing toward the door not the bar, watching for her quarry to make an appearance.
Completely unashamed, Gabriel turns his head to watch her wander through. "Alright," says he, voice untouched by alcohol or alternative substance, for the moment. "I'll bite. What brings a a gorgeous, suited girl to a place like this? I'm guessing lawyer?" His accent marks him as an Austin boy, though a well-spoken one.
"Photographer," comes a softer, harder to define accent in reply. Isobel has yet to turn to face the man, her eyes simply locked onto the entrance. "I am hardly old enough to be more than a legal aide anyhow." At least appearance wise.
"Some girls are lucky enough to look younger than they are," says Gabriel, with a gentle shrug. "But if you're that young, then here's the kicker; what the hell are you doing here without an escort? It's a pretty nasty little hole." Such a chivalric man. He sips again at the whisky in his hand.
"Some girls are, yes." Isobel is 655 years (approximately) older than what she looks. "As for my appearance here, I am quite able to handle myself in any situation." A look of dry amusement is shot at the man before she is back staring at the door.
The young man flashes a quick grin for her, meeting her amusement with a sharp and piercing interest. "Fantastic. Then you'll not mind if I buy you a drink. Preference?" He glances askance, two fingers summoning a bar tender.
"I do not drink," Isobel replies almost lightly. At least she doesn't drink alcohol. Her posture shifts to be that of perfection, her right leg crossing delicately over her left. Hands setting atop her knee. "But I thank you most kindly for the offer."
"Something soft, then," says Gabriel, flitting head to one side for a moment. "Gimme a vodka orange," he suggests to the tender, "and?" Eyes flick once more to Isobel. "Unless the lady doesn't even want a softie?"
Isobel turns and grins at the bartender, who doesn't bother making the drink. Thanks to a small flash of fang. "No, thank you. Really. I should not be imbibing while I am working."
Alas, Gabriel isn't paying that much attention to her for the moment, instead studying the remnants of his glass of whisky. He finishes it, in a swift swig. "Ah," says he, with a lift of a finger. "Working photographer. Anything interesting?"
"I like night scenes," Isobel says, the dry smirk returning. "This evening is merely a formal meeting with a… client." A follower, not a client, but she'll keep up the ruse as long as pleases her. "One can find many interesting things under the cover of darkness."
"A client," says Gabriel, flatly. Somewhere behind his eyes, a flicker of distaste creeps into his look, but it fades as he flashes a quick grin. "Cover of darkness? Sounds like you're a fangspotter or something." Or a fangbanger, perhaps. There's enough alcohol in him for him to be failing to spot the signs of vampirism before him. "So. What's the accent?"
"Or something," Isobel replies, amused. "I thoroughly enjoy the night and find it quite invigorating." There is a chance she is trying to make it sound as though she is a lady of the night or a streewalker, to gauge the human's reaction. "The accent? A little from here, a little from there. Primarily Scottish and French."
One slender hand stretches to the side, to grab the incoming orange drink. "Scottish and French?" Gabriel says, vaguely incredulously. His tone waxes sardonic. "Right. Sound pretty good together, I guess."
One slender eyebrow arches upward at him. "I was born in Scotland and spent many, many years in France. It is hardly a thing to be skeptical or mocking of." Isobel eyes the orange drink, then turns back to the door. "I apologize. My irritation is not directed to you, but to the lateness of my client. It is unlike Mr. Darcy to keep me waiting." Rather, it is very likely like Mr. Darcy to keep her waiting. It is however piquing the Sheriff's ire.
The orange drink is sipped at, and Gabriel leans back against the bar. "No worries; din't mean to offend. Client, right." His expression is faintly incredulous now, and his head shakes, as though struggling to comprehend something. "Seriously, you're far too hot to be the sort of girl has 'clients'. Exotic accent, which is also kinda hot by the way, and looking like that? You're in the wrong business, ma'am." So apparently the young man thinks she is a high-class whore. "Should be a model, or an actress."
"And what sort of punter calls himself 'Mr Darcy' anyway?"
The vampiress watches as he enjoys the drink. "The compliments are appreciated," Isobel says, her lips curving into a sly grin. "The insinuation that I am a prostitute on he other hand is not." The door opens, and a burly man enters. Not her quarry. "I would presume that he is perhaps British or Irish. As I have yet to actually meet the man, I can tell you very little other than that."
A faintly resigned expression touches at Gabriel's brow. "Hey, you were the one talking about clients in a mysterious manner," he tells her, without heat. "Guess I figured it wrong. Sorry." Though he sounds somewhat unconvinced. "On the other hand," he continues, sipping once more at the drink, the depressed demeanour fading away, replaced by a sly grin of his own that he shoots sideways. "you've not slapped me yet. I probably deserve it." Humour drives his voice now, as he rallies his narcissistic nature. "Hell, I might enjoy getting slapped by a girl like you."
"There is nothing mysterious about a photographer meeting with a client to discuss an engagement." Isobel's expression is extremely neutral. "I do not enjoy injuring my food," she says with a smirk. "Though I have heard that tenderizing it makes it much more enjoyable."
The young man pauses with his drink half-way to his lips, head and eyes turning to really _look_ at Isobel for the first time, rather than sweep a practised eye over her. "Oh, fuck," says he, as part of a resigned sigh, his eyes filling with fear, for a just a moment, before the consummate actor within draws him to a wry, depressed, self-deprecating humour. "Just my luck. Piss off a gorgeous, charming, well-dressed photographer vampire. Another day at the office."
Once the man finally realizes what she is, Isobel laughs. "Were I 'pissed off' to use your colloquialism, you would no longer be seated." Ire, yes. Irritation, sure. Pissed off? Not quite.
"Depends," Gabriel says, eyes dropping away from her to best mask the fear that sits deep inside him now. To run is to be prey. To be prey is to die. Brave face, Gabriel. Brave face. Prepare the trump card. "Sure, I could be a smear on the wall. I'm here, at your mercy, if that's your thing. Accent makes sense now. Hah." A sharp bark of wry laughter. "I won't apologise more than I have though, just 'cause you're immortal and terrifyingly powerful. People is people, as far as I'm concerned. Not a lot else to say, is there?"
"You are fearful. Natural, I suppose." Even if he does his best to mask his visual fear, his heart is still racing. The blood is still pumping through his body at an accelerated rate. Isobel licks her lips, trying to suppress the urge to show fang. "Indeed," she says to the rest of his inane chatter.
The young man's eyes snap up to her; fight or flight burning in him. "You're damn right I'm scared!" He lets the fear show through properly now, though his jaw squares as if ready to meet his fate. "Before you tear my throat out, though, you'd best know my name. Gabriel Rosco. Son of Nathaniel Rosco. The lawyer." Hope against hope that she recognises the name as a respected and useful man in Austin.
"Ah, the son of Kinnel's lawyer." There is a faint hint of derision in her voice, and Isobel points to the door. "Were I the type to randomly tear out throats, I would hardly do so in such a public location. Do you have reason to believe I want you dead, little kitten?" A way of calling him a scaredy-cat without outright doing so.
"Let me try that one more time, to clarify," says the lithe man, steeling himself by draining the remnants of his drink. He drifts towards self-loathing with this particular statement, intending to show he is not claiming her lack of understanding. "Gabriel Kegan Rosco." His voice shakes, though his body is taut and rigid. "I just called you a whore," he says, quietly. "For which I apologised, before I knew what you were. Vampires aren't exactly know for their forgiving nature. Anyway, you're just fucking with me now. If you're gonna kill me or drink me, do your mind tricks and take me outside. Otherwise, I doubt we'll be forming a lasting friendship, will we?"
"As I said. The son of Kinnel's lawyer." Isobel is rather amused, and turns to show him her rather amused grin. "The vampire Kegan is dead." That is all there is to say about that. "I have been called far worse in my years. As I have stated, if I wished to harm you, I would." Her eyes return to the door once more. "Child, you are hardly the type that I enjoy feeding from." A very blatant lie, but a true one in this instance. "Besides, with the advent of synthetic, I hardly need to feed from anyone at all." Another very blatant lie, but not one that he would know about.
"You hardly _need_ to feed," Gabriel comments, dark and sarcastic, before a shot of terror brings him from that particular place, and he shoots a quick, startled glance Isobel's way. Someone is unused to being unable to speak his mind. Somehow, though, he starts to rally, though that heartbeat continues to race. A slow smile spreads across his lips. "Guess I've done for any chance of getting to know you better," he manages, flirtily, though his heart isn't quite in it. "Look, I'm gonna walk out that door now. That okay with you?"
"Your fear amuses me," Isobel states in a very open, very honest manner. "By all means. You head out that door. I will continue to wait here for my client. You will have no worries about being followed." This time. "Though, as a warning…" She holds up an index finger. "You would do well to perhaps not mention your middle name when dealing with others of my kind. Kegan is not one whom most look upon fondly at the moment. He was a crazed lunatic of a man. I do hope that you do not share that trait with your namesake."
Slowly sliding from his chair, Gabriel resolves not to say any more, just nodding and moving towards the door, his body not managing his usual easy gait. Suddenly, though, he stops, and turns. The 'was' has sunk in. Slowly, but surely, his look comes back to Isobel. "Did you say that motherfucker was dead?" he asks, low and level.
A slight nod comes from the vampiress. "I did." That seems to be all that she is willing to say on that matter. However, Isobel, being who she is, admonishes, "Language, little kitten. I do not like such words in the presence of a lady."
"You shake the hand of whoever did that," says Gabriel, "and say thank you, from me. That f-" He stops, heeding the warning with a wry and sharp smile. "I met him." Meaningful and emotional words in that tone. "I've seen some of what he did. Good riddance." Fear and bitter satisfaction in him now.
Isobel smiles, iciness wiped away momentarily. Looking everything like the eighteen-year-old woman she should look. "I shall ensure that it is done." Though not via handshake as those are rare between her kind. "You may be off now if you desire. As I have said, there will be no one following you." Even though she /is/ quite peckish. It can wait until she returns to the estate.
The involuntary lust that sparks into Gabriel's eyes is swept away by the closing of his eyes and the nod of his head. "Okay," he says, turning once more to walk away. Once outside the door, and apparently oblivious to vampire's enchanced sense, he does start muttering to himself. "Far, far too hot to be a dead girl. Goddamit. Idiot fucking boy, Rosco." A similar vein of muttering takes him into the night, even as he pulls his phone from his pocket. Someone needs a booty call.
