ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʜɪᴅᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ, ɪᴛ's ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴡɴ.

[vampiracy]

ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ Sʏʟᴀʀ.

If he's honest, he doesn't exactly like being an errand boy for the nest. He knows that it's best to stay in the fold instead of break out of it, and his sire is quick to breathe down his neck if he's gone too long. That's why he's back in town, and picking up duties that he's neglected for a few months. He won't keep his seat if he keeps on that way, and he's determined not to lose his standing.

He has plans, and falling through the ranks is not going to get him there.

So when the topic of paying a new contract was raised, he offered to nail down the dirty details. If he's honest he's curious about this meta human they've hired to clean up messes left behind. The pirate honestly would rather his kind not leave a mess to be cleaned, but that's not a battle he's like to win today.

He helps himself into the shop, glancing around with at least a vague curiosity before he tings a bell hoping for attention. The man that answers seems rather ordinary, and Killian gives a smile that has too much teeth to be particularly warm. "Looking for the fellow that owns this place," he says, tone friendly enough.

ᴛʜᴇ Jᴏʟʟʏ Rᴏɢᴇʀ, ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀʟʟ.

He's done a lot of running around since he's arrived back from his travels. He's invited a few of his friends round to his bar to check in with them, with a back room open for only those that have been specifically welcomed.

That doesn't mean that the place is closed to everyone else, though; it's a popular enough pub, and the prices are fairly low for a person that wants to get pissed and doesn't care too much about how fancy the drinks they're taking happen to be.

He's usually in the back, but, on occasion he can be found at the pool table. Who says you can't scrub your own patrons? If you manage to beat him, he might even get you a drink.

ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ Tɪɴᴋᴇʀ Bᴇʟʟ.

( it's a bit odd, isn't it, for a vampire to stay in? he supposes that's true enough, and he's out plenty of nights. and days, his ring grants him freedom most can't boast. still, even if he doesn't sleep particularly long hours, tonight he's in on his own, and there's a bit of relief in that.

it seems every time he comes back to London, a timer sets in his feet that demands he leave again. he can't keep picking up and moving where the wind blows, there are things that demand his attention here and he knows that the longer he spends away, the more he'll lose control. his sire is unhappy for how long he's been gone, things are shifting out of place and he'll never stay on top of it if he doesn't stay still.

if he's honest — and he never is, especially not with himself — the emptiness clings, whether he's in London or halfway across the world.

he doesn't expect much of the evening. it's dark and befitting of what he is, now, and he's nursing a bottle to try and get to at least a mild buzz. there might be a furry gray creature nestled on his chest, and since he's alone he'll even run a few doting touches over soft features as the demonic thing purrs with utter contentment. )

I used to be a bloody pirate captain, you know. ( the cat doesn't answer his bitter musings of spending his nights petting a cat and watching terrible television considering his epic past, she just tucks her face into her paws and purrs more. if the cat is meant to be frightened of him, either for his villainous past or his current state of undead, she must have missed that memo. he pretends he doesn't dote on the cat, but when he's alone, it's hard not to.

she'll go home soon enough, he's not sure when; just that when she does the place will seem even more vacant than usual. it's like he's forgotten how to make a place feel like home. then again, did he ever really know how to do that? )

Comments

[damnyank]

Luckily, it takes little more than a single, painful squeeze to lead the truculent patron into a retreat. Jackson's shooting his former opponent a shit-eating grin, evidently pleased that it's not him getting manhandled and kicked out of the bar. For it reaffirms the fact that he is, indeed, the winner in this confrontation.

Oh, the simple enjoyments of a mind well-liquored.

"Much obliged, brother," Jackson declares in a distinctly American drawl, before placing a hand on the vampire's shoulder. No consideration for personal space. None at all. "It's fellas like him that ruin what's 'pposed to be a good, honest game. I suppose the only way to rectify this night would be to find a proper opponent."

Jackson's pinning him down with a stare that already asks his question.

"What about it?"

[vampiracy]

Hook has nothing against Americans in particular, though he's quite clearly English. He's capable of diluting his accent if he wants to, he just rarely bothers. As much as he despises the royal family, and oh trust that he does, there's some flicker of belonging here. He was born here, he'll always be a part of this place. His brother had loved the crown and their home — perhaps that was why he had never managed to completely leave it behind. Really, the American mindset suited him more than an English one, he tended to be more accepting of Americans than most.

If anything, this one reminds him a bit of men long since past. It's really not a good thing to be reminiscent of a pirate, only a pirate would think that was a compliment. He lifted brows and glanced unimpressed toward the table. He really hadn't watched the last game to know how well it'd gone, or if there'd been a bit of sharking involved. still, there was enough boldness in him left to be intrigued.

"Depends on what I'd get out of it," he decides. No, Killian Jones did not play without some kind of wager.

i just realized they have matching mustache & sideburns

[damnyank]

It's no surprise really. Besides the old-fashioned cut of his hair and the throwback of his flashy three-piece suit-- dress shirt, vest, dark teal jacket and all-- Jackson was also raised by a coven of witches who thought they were better off pretending it was the 19th century.

To everyday society, he appears hipster.

If Jackson had been born in another era, he might've been a pirate. Well, that is, if he could over the feeling of entrapment when stuck on a ship. So maybe not. However, he is another brand of scoundrel-- a land-dwelling, slippery and sometimes disingenuous, often cheating and back-alley dealing sort of scoundrel.

"You're welcome to throw down a bet," he says, rubbing his chin idly. "Unless you're wantin' something else?"

hothothot tbh, the rp world needs more mustaches

[vampiracy]

Killian is really not one to call anyone on their eclectic sense of style. Oh, he's a little better than he used to be, he doesn't run about town in head to toe leather, but he's not afraid of a little kohl under the eyes or villainous black head to toe, either. He's also fond of vests and other trinkets most other men won't wear. Steampunk to Homer's hipster.

"I don't need any money," Hook says with a condescending tinge of amusement. Because, honestly, look at him. He's expensively dressed, if a bit oddly. "Have a watch? I'll give her a go for that." A watch, jewelry, those tended to mean more, and he could demand far more than they were worth to return them.

more facial here in general tbh

[damnyank]

He reaches beneath his shirt and slips out a necklace. Sitting on the end of the chain is a silver ring-- finely crafted, well-polished, a stately thing. If Jackson's the prince of bad decisions when sober, he's the goddamn King when he's got one too many drinks in him

For this isn't just any ring, but a signet that bares the name of a wanted man. MATTHEW JUDGE. A name that Jackson crossed the Atlantic to escape. Maybe Killian's heard of him-- Matthew Judge, witch and former best friend of Frank Goodnight, leader of a powerful vampire nest in Chicago, who'd gone a broke a bond of brothers and sold out the entire nest out to hunters.

Jackson hides now under an assumed name, but keeps his ring out of sentiment. He knows Goodnight would do just about anything to get his hands on him. Alive. But this ring was once Jackson's father's, and his father's before that.

"Will this do?" He asks, holding it up to the vampire.

there can never be enough stubble

[vampiracy]

He looks at the ring with a slight squint, though not intense enough that it could really make the other man nervous. He did recognize the name, it's hard not to when he's as old as he is and rather coerced into climbing the ranks of the nest based in London. It makes him curious, because there's certainly a story behind that. The chances of it being a coincidence seem pretty low, after all.

Killian shrugs, before tugging a silver pocket watch from his vest pocket, letting it dangle for a moment to catch the light before he tucks it back in. He's got his own incentive to put down, after all. Now the only question was, "Who breaks?"

[damnyank]

Oh, it's one hell of a story indeed: full of love and intrigue, betrayal and murder. Though it's a story that Jackson would never recount to the likes of Killian, both a stranger and a vampire in one. He's yet to tell even Edmund Reid, one of the few men Jackson trusts.

Now, if he were to lose the ring in a bet... well, who knows what lengths he might go to reclaim it.

Leaning his cue stick against his shoulder, Jackson gestures to the vampire and then to the table. "You're up first."

[vampiracy]

The pirate is not exactly a pro at pool, but that doesn't mean he's without any skill at all. Owning a bar for a few decades gave one plenty of opportunity to practice, and he's better than the majority. Enhanced senses never hurt, either.

"All right." Conceding the first turn might be a bit arrogant — but Hook is willing to wager it's drunken confidence, more than actual skill. He gets a good break, snags three stripes all told before Homer gets his go. He hadn't been paying the man any mind before but he certainly is now, eying him for an awareness of his skill. How hard he'll need to try to win. "You pick fights with everyone you play with, or was that fellow special?"

[damnyank]

Jackson's a casual player, having spent much of his adult life gambling during his frequent bar-crawls. He's pretty good, but certainly not a winner every time. It's more cockiness than confidence that drives Jackson's attitude, which is all a part of his persona in the end, not actual surety in his ability to win.

"I pick fights with fellas who refuse to lose gracefully," he declares, before taking a strong stroke. Jackson pockets a single solid. A decent start, but nothing to be proud of.

"With whom do I have the pleasure of playing with?"

[ooc: So I'm not sure if they're playing pool billiards or the pocketless kind... if it's the latter, pretend I never said anything about pockets! ]

[vampiracy]

Killian has a wonderful ability to say things just by expression and eyebrow gymanstics alone. The one he uses now, that his company may or may not even witness, is that he's not entirely sure that he buys that. He'd guess his current competition will start a fight wherever he can. They used to be very much alike in that. Hook sees no point in fights these days, they're just too easy to win. He almost misses it.

"Jones," seems a good enough name for the stranger. It's a dull last name, but it is technically his... It just so happens it is also the last name of a great many others. He takes another on his turn, not an overwhelming lead but certainly keeping it. "And yourself?"

[damnyank]

Jackson's won quite a few gold metals for eyebrow gymnastics in his day, but he doesn't even need to read Jones'expression to sense the other man's doubt. He comes off as slippery, by default, a quality that his brother presumes to be a family trait, dubbed the "Judge Stink."

One has to wonder if Killian might've shared a relative with the Judges. The vampire goes back far enough.

"Jackson. Captain Homer Jackson, that is." Real title, false name. He grins. "I take it you're the Jones who owns this little hole in the wall. How many years now?"

[vampiracy]

It wasn't very likely that he shared family with anyone, sadly. He might have been old enough, but his bloodline had died with his brother, and he'd never had any children. For the best, really, he'd have been a horrific father... he doesn't let himself mourn for what will never be.

"Captain, is it?" Captain is not something one heard very frequently in modern life. Killian rather missed offering his, because as far as he was concerned, he'd earned it. He sailed enough still that he could probably have gotten away with it, it just drew attention and that was something he was better off not doing. "What sort of captain, I wonder? And more than long enough to have a bit of practice at this game." Why bother with specifics when they got a little bit ugly? Supposedly the place had been handed down to him, but he'd owned it too many decades to readily admit to it.