(OOC: Complete n00b to this whole journal RP thing but I'm here to learn on the fly. Let me have it, boils and ghouls!)
"The Golden Hand, huh?"
The prince (always with a lowercase "p", the Prince with a capital "P" was that Prince after all) takes a look at the nourishment in his glass, still rippling a bit from being swirled like wine—another mimicry of mortal habits fostered by the covenant that had so far managed to completely run his unlife. The carpets and chandeliers, the blood dolls, the toadies and the lackeys. Everything and everyone in his little nighttime corner of America, ordered and engineered to make it known to all the living and the dead that Mason Fucking Turner owned this city.
Another sip then his eyes fall on the Detroit skyline. His skyline. Listen hard enough and you just might hear the gunfire in the streets below. His streets. A bullet here, a knife there, a few screams and it's back to the usual silence of the night. His night.
Netsach. Delegation. Golden Hand.
Keywords and phrases; his late Sire taught him to tune out the gibberish. Keep the important words in mind, then ask those you trust only after adjourning. 'Trust' of course meant 'those who aren't planning to oust, exile or outright execute you'. Few enough as it may, even among his own covenant.
His moving corpse goes through the motions of a sigh of exasperation, without the breath. A month into the so-called Danse Macabre and here he is, still moderately succeeding at getting his walking corpse to act alive. Subconscious? Unconscious.
He finishes off his drink and steels himself for yet another night, slinking back into his seat. Sit straight. Voice of command. You are regal, and they will obey. Practiced inflection, rehearsed line.
"Seneschal, I will see the next one if you please."
(OOC: Err, only sure tag I got for now'd be...superbarbie?)
Mason Turner, Option 4, Open
"The Golden Hand, huh?"
The prince (always with a lowercase "p", the Prince with a capital "P" was that Prince after all) takes a look at the nourishment in his glass, still rippling a bit from being swirled like wine—another mimicry of mortal habits fostered by the covenant that had so far managed to completely run his unlife. The carpets and chandeliers, the blood dolls, the toadies and the lackeys. Everything and everyone in his little nighttime corner of America, ordered and engineered to make it known to all the living and the dead that Mason Fucking Turner owned this city.
Another sip then his eyes fall on the Detroit skyline. His skyline. Listen hard enough and you just might hear the gunfire in the streets below. His streets. A bullet here, a knife there, a few screams and it's back to the usual silence of the night. His night.
Netsach. Delegation. Golden Hand.
Keywords and phrases; his late Sire taught him to tune out the gibberish. Keep the important words in mind, then ask those you trust only after adjourning. 'Trust' of course meant 'those who aren't planning to oust, exile or outright execute you'. Few enough as it may, even among his own covenant.
His moving corpse goes through the motions of a sigh of exasperation, without the breath. A month into the so-called Danse Macabre and here he is, still moderately succeeding at getting his walking corpse to act alive. Subconscious? Unconscious.
He finishes off his drink and steels himself for yet another night, slinking back into his seat. Sit straight. Voice of command. You are regal, and they will obey. Practiced inflection, rehearsed line.
"Seneschal, I will see the next one if you please."
(OOC: Err, only sure tag I got for now'd be...