RP:Checkmate
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: The rogue vampire Filpien makes a move on one of the holdings in Geoff Burnham’s north Cenril turf, likely drawing him into the swirling tensions of gang conflict set to erupt in that ravaged city.
Characters: Filpien, Npc crew.
In the eaves of darkness on this night so cold, just across the street from the funeral parlor actually, comes the form of a man. He breathes shallow, his frigid and unnecessary breath giving life to puffs of steam. His left hand, clad in black leather, strokes over his hair, oiled back and held in place tightly by a leather strap. A right hand holds a light grip on a single-handed crossbow, loaded. His eyes train on the door across the way, shimmering cobalt hues tracking every morsel of the darkness inhabiting the doorway He turns his head with a low whistle, signaling into the darkness for his small group. Three men of varying size crowd in around him, features filling as they exit the deeper black and revealing the high cheekbones and slanted eyes of elves. Filpien points a finger in the direction of the parlour, then simply stands aside as his men go to work. The largest one, carrying a hammer the size of a man's head and looking the world and all like he wanted to torture something, swings his weapon back, then pushes forward, tossing the head of the thing through a window. The next, much smaller and wiry to boot, twists in his hands a small capsule, then tosses this in through the now busted and useless portal for viewing. A small pop, a fizz, instant smoke. It pours from the nice building's one open orifice, clouding the approach of the third member of Filpien's not-so-motley crew. This was the guard, the dog of the ringleader. As Filpien pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it with a deft flick of the lid of a golden lighter, the third member leaps in through the window and simply unlocks the door. They had worked like a well oiled machine... Hell, it was probably the oil from Filpien's hair. Their leader approaches, props the crossbow on his shoulder, and opens the door to the parlour just as he takes a mighty pull from his cigarette.
Once inside the smoke filled room, Filpien releases his lung full of nicotine laden goodness. The funeral director was obviously scared, his heartbeat racing as Filpien moves through the dense smoke to press the tip of the bolt on his crossbow to his flesh, just over the heart. With a new glint unfamiliar to this male's eyes and a smile that spoke of darker things to come, the vampire says, "In the game of chess... Some must be sacrificed." With a completely conscious movement, he pulls the hair trigger on his weapon and then watches as the life fades from the director's eyes. The third member of his group appears from out of the cloud, tilts his head in a silence Filpien was slowly becoming accustomed to, then crouches and begins to pull the director towards the coffin in the chapel. Time that thing got filled.:: Filpien was surprised there had been no resistance here. He had thought for days about possible ways to make this his place of business, his own headquarters as it were. In all those musings, he had specifically accounted for there being members of some rival faction here. With a shrugs, he hops up on the glass counter top and rests the heel of his left boot on top of the nearest coffin, then says aloud, "Come on in gentleman." :: As the two men enter, the smaller one gives a look around, seeing the room more clearly now that smoke was clearing through both window and door. In a voice that belied his small stature, both deep and harsh, the little male says, "Well damn boss... Smallest amount of property damage I could've imagined possible." Filpien simply snorts, takes another drag of his cigarette, then casts his glance to the reappearance of his elven lap-dog. After a moments thought, he states quietly, "This part's done boys... Welcome home."[[[Category:The Row/RPs]]