It was rare that the Ancilla ever actually left the Sucker Punch to go wandering around the town, on the prowl for something new and exciting to do. Partially because there was never anyone new or exciting to run into, and partially because he knew from experience that it ended in disappointment. The world was full of squishy bastards and bitches that broke far too easily for his liking. At least at the Punch he knew that whoever stepped up to him would take a real good beating, even dish out a decent one, and hobble off to repair themselves and try again later.
The problem with the Punch right now was that the Disciple had woken up. While that was thrilling in it's own way, it wasn't quite there yet. Maddox was still in his boring stage. He wasn't ready to exchange punches to the shoulder, not with all that posturing he was doing around the accountant. Assistant, the majority thought. Personal assistant was more like it. You couldn't cut the sexual tension with a knife in that place right now. He didn't feel he needed to express how unfun that was. Maybe it'd be fun if he were involved but dudes? They just weren't his pint of spiked Vitae.
So here he was, forcing himself to go out into these dull streets once more, put his lamberfeeties to good use carrying himself... somewhere. No destination in mind. He'd know fun when he saw it. Clubs were bustling and he'd heard word that the red light district was particularly active these days but those weren't fun. Those were rules and regulations and that s**t just wasn't his style. Bastien wanted something he could sink his claws and teeth into, spit venom at and get a wild, maybe even dangerous, reaction out of. The world was going a little soft these days and he wasn't much into it.
The Brujah sighed. His mood was already foul, his temper bubbling just beneath the surface with how annoyed he felt. He needed someone to bully. Even if they hit back, that just made it so much sweeter. He leaned his broad, bare back against the cold, hard brick wall of a building and searched his pockets for his lighter and his pack of smokes. With a cigarette situated between his lips, he began striking the lighter. Then he shook it with far too much aggression and struck it again. Evidently a little rough handling was all it needed to produce a small flame from what fumes were left residing in it, just enough to light the end and pull deeply, dragging the familiar, rough smoke into his lungs. Not like he needed those damn things anyway.
Sylent Nyte
