Quaint Introduction

Bloody Mary's Bar

Sunset is several hours past, business has been tended to as swiftly as possible. The night is less than fair, having been threatening to rain since the sun went down. Dark clouds mire the sky outside, leaving the city dark and overcast. Which means that the Sheriff of Area 9 can be found within the walls of Mary's for the evening. While the Hotel Carmilla provides a plethora of willing donors to imbibe from should she so desire, it is often more important to be seen publicly, choosing from those that frequent the establishment.

Seated in a booth generally reserved for the King of Dallas, Isobel is currently entertaining a young man and his female companion. The man looks very business-like, suit neat and tidy, hair the same. The woman is a fangbanger who frequents the establishment, and keeps running a long, well-manicured fingernail over her jugular vein.

"So like, do you come here often?" This from the obvious fangbanger, who's annoyingly snapping her gum as she speaks.

Isobel merely glances at the woman before turning her conversation back to the man.

Cabot has very recently come in from the street, and is now seated at the bar. The patron at his left-hand side asks: "It raining yet?" as the vamp claims a barstool for himself, replying, "Not yet." Glancing over a shoulder, he scans the faces seated at a few of the tables, toying with a coaster put down in front of him before he even orders himself a drink. Maybe it's the "Bloody Mary" in bright red lettering that makes him smirk, or a banal conversation he overhears from the far end of the bar. Regardless, when the bartender approaches him, what he requests is "AB positive."

Dinner would be far easier if she could get rid of the leech; a funny thought for Isobel to have. One she quietly shares with the male at her table. The whispers only seem to infuriate the fangbanger who tries to throw a bottle of beer at the Sheriff.

A slender eyebrow quirks up as Isobel catches the bottle, settling it back on the table. "That is quite enough of that. You /will/ leave this establishment, and you will not return." There is a great deal of glamour put behind the thought. It is rather harsh of her to do, but a lady does not like having bottles thrown at them. This of course means that her dinner will be leaving as well, which is quite a pity. When the two humans take their leave, she beelines to the bar.

"Do tell Mary that I am afraid she will be losing one of her 'loyal' patrons." A brief nod toward the door before her eyes settle upon Cabot. "You are new."

Cabot is still waiting for his bottle of Blood when Isobel comes up at his side, swiveling in his seat to better regard her up close (hers having been chief among the faces he'd earlier scoped out, on entering). "That was a nice catch," he remarks dryly, glancing at the now-empty booth where she'd been seated just a moment earlier. Cabot is tall and solidly built, dressed casually with a stubbled jaw. He's definitely new.

"One of my many talents. Avoiding things that are being thrown at my face." Isobel smirks a little, then makes a little 'O' with her fingers of her right hand for the bartender, pointing her left pointer finger in a 'minus'. The bartender stops by to offer the bottle of blood to Cabot, then nods to the Sheriff. Only for her there is no heated bottle of synthetic, rather a mug of what one can only presume to be real blood.

"Though if you were meaning that I happened to catch the fact that you are new in my city, I must admit that it is merely my job to notice such things."

"Much obliged," Cabot tells the bartender, when his drink gets dropped off. Sure, it's the plebian bottled stuff, not the real thing in a hot mug, but he reaches for it, taking a deep draught. Probably his first of the evening. "I'm always a fan of not letting things get thrown at my face," he acknowledges, resting an elbow on the bartop and leaning against it as he chit chats with Isobel. "Your job? Reckon it's an important one at that." And this is said with a glance at her mug, and the crack of a grin. "I'm Cabot, most recently from Savannah. Got my heart set on a little Dallas sojourn."

The mug full of real blood is a specialty that is generally only afforded to a few patrons; those that cannot stomach the synthetic or those in power. At least that is how it has been at Mary's since Isobel has come to the city. She does not drink from it as of yet. She merely nods her head at the man. "Welcome to Dallas, Cabot. I do hope you take no offense to this, but what are your plans whilst in the city?" There have been a few who have taken it upon themselves to become angered, or upset at being asked that very same question.

"I thought I might take myself a ride on the trolley, visit the rodeo, take in the world's largest patio chair." Cabot doesn't take offense, but neither is he the sort to pass up the opportunity for a punchline. He punctuates his quip with another of his crooked grins, winking an eye disarmingly. After another sip of Blood, he gives a shrug of his shoulders and says, "Looking for a new place to settle, to tell you true. For a little while, anyway. Heard good things about Area 9."

Good things? Isobel's brow quirks at that, and she finally turns a brief moment of attention to her mug. A long, slow sip is taken from it. There is a slight closure of her eyes, and then the icy blues are upon him again. "I have found it quite to my liking," she admits, licking her lips to ensure there is not a single drop that escapes. "Though you should be aware that Texas is recovering from a bit of a political upheaval for our kind. Things are just now beginning to settle down." A pause is given before she adds, "Have you come on your own then?"

"That so? Hadn't heard that." Cabot doesn't give the appearance of being put off by the news, or anything like that, which maybe speaks to his level of interest where "politics" are concerned. Anyway, more Blood. He drinks deep and quick, manufactured blood not really being condusive to savoring, not to mention quick to run cold. When he sets down the bottle, it's almost completely empty. About whether or not he's on his own: "Nope. Got a little lady with me. She's pretty green."

"Administration change," Isobel says. She is keeping things on the downlow, as there are quite a few humans around, while still attempting to offer pertinent information. It is not as though the vampires announce such things in the newspaper after all. "The general rules apply in Area 9. Do not kill one of your own, do not go after one who is property of another, should you have a Child or make one, they are your responsibility." Though since the poor man has no idea as to who she is, she finally offers, "Isobel Symon."

"Gotcha," says Cabot, leading one to wonder what he had heard about Area 9 if not anything about the aforementioned turmoil or tumult. Perhaps he was just being congenial. Anyway, the rules get something of a same-old same-old kind of nod from him, and he tells her, "I know how to behave myself. My girl's a good kid. She won't be any trouble." He says that with a certain element of gravity, like he means business where managing his progeny is concerned, but then he says, "Isobel. It's a a real pleasure. This is one of the most welcoming interrogations I've ever had." He sounds like he means it.

"I do my best, though I shall admit that you are far more cordial than most." Isobel nods to the bartender, and he shortly returns with another mug — this one filled with AB positive for the newcomer. "I do trust that there will be no issues, though if you come across any please feel free to bring them to my attention. Whilst I do not particularly enjoy doling out punishment, I shall if it becomes necessary." Both an offer and a warning, all coming together with an icily neutral expression. "Should you need rooming while here, until you are able to procure a place of your own, you are welcome at the estate, or simply contact the Hotel Carmilla and tell them that you are an expected guest, and they shall provide you with a room."

When the mug of the good stuff is put down in front of him, Cabot offers the Sheriff a particularly appreciative cant of the head. "Thank you kindly," he tells her, both for the blood and the offer of hospitality. And if there's warning in her tone, he does his best to combat it with an innocuous, boyish grin. "Like I say. I won't be much trouble." Much. Mostly. Probably.

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