2020-06-17 Gathering of the Anarchs - June 2020
Gathering of the Anarchs – June 2020
Participants: Alexis, Angel, Bartok, Cheyenne, Juju, Mahogani, Shawna, Sveta
Storyteller: Sundance
Location: Cheyenne's mansion, Ocean Park, Santa Monica
Date and Time: June 17, 2020, nighttime
Summary: A gathering of the Westside Anarchs to discuss job openings and current affairs.
Mood Music: https://www.billboard.com/charts/hot-100/2020-06-20
Ocean Park is a NICE neighborhood in Santa Monica. See, there are different ways to say it: there's a nice neighborhood, which is just a nice neighborhood, and then there's a NICE neighborhood. Say them aloud in your best 'white news anchor' voice. You'll probably pick up on the implied differences via intuition alone. This is the sort of neighborhood where there's never a strand of hair out of place -- except, weirdly, for a bunch of crows flying overhead and cawing after sundown tonight, but that's certainly not usual for the area.
Ocean Park is also where the Baroness of Santa Monica lives, one Cheyenne Spare. Usually, the leader of an Anarch domain is called a 'Baron' regardless of gender, but this one has decided that she wants to be a 'Baroness,' and so she is one. Her mansion dates back to the 1920s, built for some Hollywood personality who wanted a house that functioned as a venue for social gatherings. That's why every night, when the creeps come out, the mansion hosts a party. Nothing fancy, other than all the fancy people and fancy clothes and fancy talk, and of course the fancy property with a fancy private beach. It's not quite an Elysium, but for the social-climbing of the Westside Anarchs, it's a place to gather and take a chance on being noticed by Cheyenne.
Tonight, the gathering is inside. Fine crystal is filled with supiciously dark and thick 'rum' or 'punch' or 'wine' or whatever people might joke and wink and say it is instead of what it really is, which is human blood. (Fancy human blood.) Cheyenne herself, diminutive of form and yet regal of bearing, is wearing a pastel blue evening gown that showcases a shortstack figure very, very nicely. The dining room is full of rich effete-snob vampires -- many of them are talking among themselves, networking, treating this the same as they would any other Hollywood party. The only breather present is a man who's never out of earshot from Cheyenne -- tall, middle-age-ish, muscular in the way that he's kind of a big rectangle, and when he does speak, it's in curt, clipped sentences with a thick Russian accent.
"Welcome, Anarchs," Cheyenne says, after tapping her glass to draw attention. "I'm Cheyenne Spare of Clan Brujah -- Baroness of Santa Monica -- Leader of the Westside Anarchs. This is my haven... and you're all my guests. I like to know my guests' names, though... and tonight, I want you to know each others', as well. Before we get down to business... let's go around the room a bit -- your name -- your clan -- where you rep, if it's not HERE...~"
The tall, poised woman that most of the Westside Anarchs know at least by the name Mahogani (and some as Miss San-Claire, though she is often quick to dismiss those kinds of formalities) is here, she has been here. In fact, she arrived a little early, but not awkwardly so, and found a space in the designated meeting space to claim as her own. She stands, for the time being, but leans against the arm of one of the loveseats, her hip cocked just to the side as she does.
Tonight, Mahogani is dressed in a high-waisted, just-below-the-knee, mustard skirt embroidered with silver hummingbirds. Her strappy heels are the same earthy yellow as her skirt. Her top is slightly revealing, with a bare midriff (it would be moreso if her skirt didn't sit so high) in the same colour but with the silver birds embroidered over her shoulders alone and bare sleeves. She holds her chin high, watchful and attentive, as Cheyenne welcomes her guests.
"I believe you know my name, Baroness," she begins, speaking first without hesitation, "but for those who do not, I am Mahogani San-Claire, and although I follow the beliefs of the Movement and eschew the claim of Clan, the blood of my forebears is that of Ventrue. I am part of the local brood, and make my home in the Central Tower Building, should any of you ever require sanctuary."
Angel looks like she might melt into the floor at Cheyenne's declaration of introductions being required. She is standing near the back trying to look as nondescript as possible, wearing what amounts to an ridiculously oversized and faded black t-shirt that reads 'Reagan Bush '84', reaching all the way down to her knees. She's got a pair of boots on as well, hiking boots. And white socks. Because boots without socks is weird and offputting. "Uh... Angel. And no clan. I mean. Maybe Toreador. But. Who even knows." There's a shrug from the woman before she falls silent again, scuffing her booted toe against the floor.
Juju is wearing a designer gown of course with a glass of that fancy human blood, her gown in questions is a lovely emerald color which compliments her complexion perfectly. She listens quietly and easily mentions, "I am Juju of clan Toreador. I am new to the area but plan to make this my home. Originally from Maine but happy to be out of all that cold. Very happy." She sips upon that blood with a fond smile, gesturing for the next to take their turn.
Alexis is a somewhat infrequent attendee upon Cheyenne's various social events, generally giving the excuse of "I'm working." Tonight at least she isn't working, and put on a simple but shapely evening dress in a subdued teal with some slight ruffling at the shoulders. Her hair is, as usually, tightly bound up behind her head. She'll turn her severe gaze over the others in the room, some that she knows, and some that she doesn't, before taking her own turn to speak. "I'm Alexis Klein-Sterling of Ventrue. I work for the colony as a lawyer for the various transactional matters that trouble us."
Those pesky crows stay about a hundred to two hundred feet above the outer patio area of the beachfront mansion, circling and caw-ing loudly to one another. There's never more than three or four of them and they regularly flutter back east only to be replaced another. The whole murder departs at once a couple of minutes before Cheyenne's introduction... surely a coincidence, right?
Also by coincidence, Shawna Weber arrives just as the crows are departing to the east. The tall, androgynous blonde is dressed in a plain outfit that does 'not' place her as one of Santa Monica's elite. A light grey hoody is worn open over a dark green t-shirt, the latter of which is tucked into a pair of faded and dirt-marked jeans. Brown hiking boots complete the outfit.
Shawna enters the interior just as Cheyenne is finishing and she exchanges a brief, solemn nod with the curt Russian breather before she moves off to claim an empty place to stand. The blonde follows each introduction with a keen, blue-eyed stare, and waits for her opening before stating in a soft and somber voice, "Shawna Weber, childe of Carol Winters of Clan Gangrel."
When Alexis introduces herself, Mahogani tilts her head to the side, not hiding her interest, but not being particularly demonstrative either. An attempt is made to exchange a glance, something subtle, but not necessarily hidden from the rest of those introducing themselves and paying attention in that moment. Unlike many of the others gathered, she carries no glass and has not partaken of the refreshments, but considering her claimed blood, that is probably easy to understand.
Svetlana Serova arrived early. Maybe a little too early.
While the help had been still laying out the refreshments and organizing the mansion's arrangements into something befitting a properly upscale gathering, the Russian pulled up on the street outside on a probably-not-street-legal beat-to-shit two-stroke dirtbike and left it, unlocked and vulnerable to the whims of whatever might befall it in a neighborhood too upscale to worry about things like petty theft.
Since arriving, she's kept to herself, mouth shut, save to take more than a polite share of the evening's blood supply, and eyes open. She doesn't hide the fact that she's playing the wallflower, matching faces to names heard in rumor and sizing up the various partygoers.
Once Shawna arrives and introduces herself, she lets a crooked smile smear across her face like transmission fluid in a gutter puddle.
The undead Russian also doesn't take the liberty of introducing herself, opting instead to allow everyone else around her to speak. She's content to listen.
She wears an army surplus field jacket, sized large enough to fit her frame like a three quarter length coat and haphazardly died black enough that the camouflage pattern is only discernable upon close inspection. Beneath this, painted on, high waisted black jeans cuffed above combat boots, with a landscaping company's t-shirt neatly tucked into its waistband.
While not his normal attire for walking the beat, Bartok's attire certainly was certainly a little off the mark for the glittering attire of some of those gathered there. The Adidas tracksuit the gargoyle wore at the very least looked new and didn't have the scent of the streets or Crawley's domain settled into the fabric fibers yet.
He arrives to the party not in the company of Abrams who was absent. The Gargoyle makes his entrance by gliding down over the back yard and and pool and landing very gently on the back pool deck patio. Because what lavish California household didn't have a pool. He dusts oof his jacket and approaches the back door. He carries that duffel bag he used for stuffing his wings into, a skateboard under one arm, and an a bouquet of lilies in his other hand.
Bartok raps his gnarled knuckles against the back door to be let inside by one of Cheyenne's servants or perhaps someone else.
It would be a pretty bleak day in Hell before Abrams showed himself in Santa Monica. But he is apparently not above sending his attack dog.
Juju slips off to the a seat nearby while lightly sipping on her drink. She curiously watches all that make their introductions and then refocuses her attention upon Cheyenne. Her legs gracefully crossing at her ankles and tucking to the left under the seat she has chosen. She looks towards the back door with curiousity before looking around to see how might be answering it.
Shawna moves over to get the door for Bartok and steps aside to let the gargoyle enter. Her gaze drops to the bouquet of lilies before she fixes the large creature with a curved smirk. The blonde closes the door after Bartok is inside and quietly returns to her previous standing spot.
The blonde Ventrue can feel Mahogani's eyes upon her and so briefly meets the other woman's gaze. She gives a polite raise of her chin, noting that she has been noted. She likewise has not partaken of any of the party favors, at least not yet. Instead, she'll make her way across the room once all the others have announced themselves. The severe set of her expression doesn't ease, and likely is just her default, as her tone, when she speaks, is not hostile: "Mahogani was it? I believe I've seen you at events before." Alexis just isn't always that talkative. She's kind of a weird lawyer.
Cheyenne's Russian ghoul moves to observe closely as Shawna lets Bartok in. To the ghoul's credit, he doesn't seem especially terrified of the Gargoyle! But he also doesn't look like there's a LOT going on behind his eyes. He has the glassy-eyed stare one might expect from, say, a shark, or someone driven to murder from receiving too many concussions, like that Law & Order episode.
Cheyenne's smile as people speak up is small, but noticeable nonetheless. Once the whole room -- with one exception -- has gone, she speaks again. When she does speak, her voice is light and airy. She has a Beverly Hills for-shoorrrr accent (imagine each of those r's at the end getting progressively smaller) but otherwise speaks in the same tone of voice one might expect to hear from a relaxation tape.
"This is Anarch territory -- which means you're free to do what you want, for the most part." Cheyenne's small smile becomes a wry grin. "Which I suppose includes drinking a whole bunch of the blood I paid for and then being so rude as to not introduce yourself. /Sveta~./" Cheyenne's dark eyes fix on Sveta. She sees her there. Various Anarchs in the gathering turn to also look at Sveta and murmur comments to one another, possibly about the increasing number of vagrants in the sect.
"When I was young in my unlife, my sire, the previous Baron, used to begin every one of these gatherings -- and they were much bigger gatherings, because there were a /lot/ of us -- by reciting the Status Perfectus. We've got a lot of new faces here tonight... so I think I might bring that tradition back, if you'll indulge me. Because even though Santa Monica is a Barony -- the Status Perfectus is really what all of us Anarchs strive for~." And then, because she's the Baroness and who's going to tell her no, Cheyenne does just that -- reciting the Status Perfectus, from memory. How much of a drag is it to listen to?
+ROLL/+DICE> Cheyenne: Charisma + Performance vs. 5 -> 0 successes.
As it turns out, listening to the entire Status Perfectus at a fancy dinner party /is/ kind of a drag. Cheyenne herself seems to realize it about midway through, once she's too far in to give up and quit -- one can't simply say 'We declare ourselves to be free and independent, and you know what, fuck it.' But the recital probably came off a lot better being shouted out to hundreds of umpteenth-generation neonates than it does being spoken in a calm, relaxing tone of voice during a fancy party.
"...anyway," Cheyenne says, after she finishes. Like she refuses to admit that she just bored the hell out of the room, and if she ignores that it happened, everyone else might, too. Maybe.
<OOC> Cheyenne says, "Also, for those who don't know the Status Perfectus off-hand, or want a refreser, the text of it is here -- https://pastebin.com/S4FDGJqh -- kinda the Anarch Free States bill of rights."
There are no doubt many Anarchs, of the South Bay and South Los Angeles gang confederacies, that are also enthusiastic believers in the Status Perfectus - a creed seen as a uniquely Los Angeles phenomena, and the foundation of the Anarch Free State. Of course, many of those same Anarchs, south of the 10, would happily tear apart everyone in this room right now!
Sveta is actually mid-pour on what must be her fifth glass of the good stuff when her name is pointedly called out. She glances up at Cheyenne, then around the room, as her attempt to remain relatively inconspicuous off in the periphery has backfired. She lets out a little breath of chagrined amusement, then raises up her glass in a toast toward the baroness.
"Serova," she appends to the given name forced introduction. "Allegedly Malkavian. Camarilla. Not here in any official capacity tonight. Primarily because I don't have any official capacity." She drinks from her own toast, then, downing the glass in two or three long gulps, before licking her chops and glancing the group of undead over.
"Don't worry. I'm not here to prosthelytize unless you tell me what your safeword is."
Angel wants to pay attention. She really really does. But then Cheyenne starts talking and it's an absolute bore. She blinks a few times and finds her gaze sliding to the side to those present, the large gargoyle in particular. Still she doesn't move from her spot, and does a pretty good job of pretending she's watching the Cheyenne's speech.
Angel pages: Sorry for throwing shade! I had to run off the 0 successes.
One of the Westside Anarchs, wearing a mesh shirt and a few glowy bracelets, seems to be watching Cheyenne's recital with an almost absurd attentiveness. Although he retains the same expression even when the Baron trails off.
However his rainbow-haired companion seems to be more interested in playing with her glossy bright (and rather sharpish) nails. When she realizes that Cheyenne has trailed off, she'll suddenly stir herself, "Wooo! Yeah...!" She offers, bravely. And then smiles at Cheyenne!
More softly, "Go Chey..."
For her part, Sveta offers a tongue-in-cheek golf clap against the wrist of her glass-bearing hand.
There'll be a muttered curse somewhere in the back of the room, as one of the Westside Anarchs knocks over a vase with his elbow, while springing too rapidly to imitate clapping, "Fuck...!" He cries above the shattering class. Although, the breaking vase seems to startle a few others out of their apathy, "Yeah! Fuck yeah!"
Alexis will politely applaud the end of the recital, her expression largely unchanged. It probably isn't sarcastic, but her affect is flat enough that it'd be hard to tell. When the vase is broken her attention shifts over briefly, and she just gives a faint shake of her head.
Bartok tilts his masked face as Shawna was the one to let him in. His posture straightens with a bit of surprise in the regard. Maybe even pleasant surprise. He gives his wings a gentle flap before folding them and stepping inside. He gives Cheyenne's ghoul a stare as he steps inside. Whether it's a look of pity or simply sizing him up is impossible to tell. The tall silent creature gives Shawna a nod and steps inside. Once Cheynne had finished her recital Robbie steps up to the Baroness and presents the bouquet of flowers to the Brujah. Whether these were sent by Abrams or something the Gargoyle had picked up on the way here was ambigous. He'd peer of towards the sound of the breaking glass as if trying to comprehend how expensive it sounded.
Suddenly, one of the Westside Anarchs, amidst the half-hearted clapping - a man with shiny black goggles draped about his throat, and a haircut that was tragically trendy about five years ago when he was Embraced, will speak up, "Hey! When are we going to talk about what happened to Treva and Q-T?" Cheyenne will recognize him as Kevo. Which means she can either entertain his question, or tell him to shut the fuck up, for now.
To her credit(?), Cheyenne weathers the obvious just-woke-up performative enthusiasm and the stayed-awake-for-every-second punitive golf-claps. It's the broken vase that makes her expression change -- for a moment, the young Brujah's face is tense, lips drifting out of their usual zen smile. Her ghoul seems to know exactly what to do: "I get broom," he says, in an accent like frozen-solid borscht. And then he does.
That moment of tension is broken by Bartok's presentation of flowers. "...for me?" Cheyenne says, with a coo of false modesty. Of course they're for her. But she still has to touch a hand to her chest and smile and act flattered. She accepts the lillies, and holds them cradled in one arm when Kevo cries out. "...I was just about to say, /Kevo/, we can get down to business now. I'll make the first order of business quick: I'm hiring. A Reeve. A Warlord or two. A Sweeper. Maybe a Coyote, too. If you're interested... seek me out, and we'll talk about why you're right for the job~. But the reason we need these positions is... yes, situations like Treva and Q-T."
<OOC> Cheyenne says, "For those who don't know the Anarch job descriptions, they are here: https://pastebin.com/JnCHs1jV"
Shawna reclaims her earlier spot and settles in to watch as Bartok delivers the flowers to Cheyenne. Her aloof, near vacant expression is briefly shattered by a look of annoyance as the sound of the shattering vase fills the room but then the look is gone and her face is blank once again. The boyish blonde seems content to just watch and listen, though she does tilt her head and betray a hint of curiosity at the mention of 'A Sweeper'.
The Gargoyle turns back around to Cheyenne. A slow nod seems to comminicate 'Indeed. For you'. He steps away from Cheyenne, lumbering across the room to loiter around in Shawna's vicinity with his hands in his pockets. Bartok seems to prefer to stand, for now.
Seventh glass. Even for a parasitic creature like her, Svetlana Serova seems somewhat unenthused by the prospect of polishing off this final vessel. She swirls the liquid around the inside of the rim and wrinkles her nose a little. Despite the quantity of blood she's ingested, the Russian still looks decidedly corpselike, pale flesh desaturated as week old deli-meat. She angles herself in Shawna's direction and winds up alongside the Gangrel, filtering through the loose crowd easily. She leans in and whispers greetings with a leer of a smile, offering up the bit of blood she couldn't bring herself to drain.
If Shawna doesn't take the bait, she's just as happy to pawn off the stuff on the hulking gargoyle when he joins them.
Angel leans back against a wall and goes to tuck her own fingers into her pockets when she remembers what she's wearing. There's no pockets for her. She grumbles at the notion and smoothes her palms down her hips.
Juju sits quietly as she listens, still nursing her first glass of that delicious blood. She does more watching than talk, clearly. She ponders the current openings, quiet contemplation to see if she may slip easily into such duties.
Kevo is going to speak up again, "How is a Coyote going to stop us from getting our fucking asses kicked in Oakwood?"
A couple of the other Westsiders, like the boy in the mesh shirt, or the rainbow-haired girl will wince. But they seem similarly curious.
Shawna offers Sveta a stern shake of her head when that small amount of blood is offered. Her stare lingers, firm and direct, as Sveta moves on to offer the drink to Bartok afterward. It's only when Kevo speaks up that she directs her gaze away from the Camarilla Malkavian and back toward Cheyenne.
Cheyenne stares at Kevo for a long moment, her expression blank. Then it's like a reset script runs in her head before she starts talking. "So... some of you might be hearing about this for the first time, just now. I'm sure it's been whispered about to others. I don't like keeping secrets from you all, I assure you." Cheyenne glances around the room, taking in all the faces -- including Bartok and Sveta, who seem to be the ones who give her pause before she continues.
"Treva and Q-T got torpored in Oakwood, out in Venice." Cheyenne's nose wrinkles slightly. "Oakwood is part of Venice. And Venice is part of the Westside, last I checked. Which means that South Bay Anarchs, operating on our turf, put two of our own into torpor." Another pause, for a beat. "Each of those jobs I stated will have very, very important things to do. But... if you wanted me to stand here and give you all marching orders and slap your rears to send you on your way... you wouldn't be Anarchs, would you~?"
Cheyenne's dark eyes take in the crowd again. "Angel," she says, zeroing in on the one who claimed no clan. "And anyone else who wants to answer -- we have rival Anarchs who are trying to bully us out of /our/ land. I want to know your thoughts... on how we should respond to that."
The girl with the rainbow hair (and maybe the boy in the mesh shirt too!) will perk up a bit, at the mention of slapping rears. Yet...Treva and Q-T getting beat into torpor has put a damper on everyone's spirits this evening. Getting beat up is scary! Especially since the Westside Anarchs have historically responded to gang violence by sending cops after their persecutors, moreso than taking a stand themselves.
Angel lets out an audible meep before she blinks a few times, looking around the room. Crap. Crappity crap crap. She closes her eyes for a few moments and composes herself before she exhales. "Um... blood and thunder?"
Most will know of Oakwood as being a savagely poor, primarily African-American neighborhood, in Venice (Where historically, was the only place black servants and laborers were allowed to live), and the homebase of the Shoreline Crips. Which are rather unsurprisingly infiltrated by the South Bay Anarchs. Even the Santa Monica Police Department has trouble dealing with the Shoreline Crips, and will often avoid them in favor of radioing in the LAPD or LASD.
"Blood and thunder," Cheyenne repeats. Her smile is indulgent, and her tone makes it sound like she truly appreciates the idea. "What does the rest of the room think? Bringing blood and thunder down on Anarch fangbangers?"
"The only other option would be to give up the territory." Shawna offers in that somber voice of hers that almost sounds like she's moping. "There is no middle ground when your enemy is probing your territory like that. Anything short of a swift response would just be you showing your throat."
Alexis has a calculating expression on her face as she considers this question. Two of their own being violently assaulted is a problem indeed, but her usual solutions are usually not quite as direct or dramatic and often involve the word "injunction." "My usual choice would be to try and hurt them financially in some way, though a great deal of their business is not exactly legal already."
After a few moments, the Westsider who had accidentally broken the vase, will blink his suddenly red-rimmed eyes, and then scrub at them with the heel of his palm, before crying, "Treva and Q-T didn't deserve that! Treva just Embraced her like, two months ago! But I don't...I don't wanna mess with the Shoreline Crips more than we have to..." He takes a slow step backwards, his hip dangerously bumping one of Cheyenne's corner tables...the lamp wobbles!
Kevo turns and snarls at the other boy, "Don't be such a pussy, Dane!"
The Westsider girl with the rainbow hair will turn and bury his face against the mesh-shirt wearing boy's shoulder, trying to stifle a sudden attack of the giggles.
Bartok's attention seems fully on Cheyenne for now, but he does notice the sanguine cocktail being pushed his way. A bony hands reaches up to receive the offering, though he doesn't sup from the glass just yet. The Gargoyle remains silent on the matter, listening to the rest of the room. He watches the exchange of the more spritely Westsiders with a stare, then shrugs.
Sveta swings the glass from Shawna, who she gives a sardonically rebukeful glare for turning down her peace offering, to Bartok. She waggles it at the gargoyle, and when he accepts, she turns a smug little stare in Shawna's direction.
This is held for a moment as the conversation develops, interjecting after a spell.
"Maybe not my place to jump in here, and I'm missing context, but I think perhaps only knocking two of your leeches into a pleasant coma rather than making them just..." She flicks her fingers sideways, as if whipping some water from her digits. "Disappear, is clear ask to bring you to the table. If they wanted a fight, they would make show of ending them. If they wanted to waste them, they'd just be gone, and you all would be sitting here wondering where they elope to instead. You know what prompted this curb stomp? Or did it emerge out of vacuum?"
The Russian ghoul, who has just finished sweeping up the vase, steps in and puts a big meaty hand on the lamp to keep it from falling. He doesn't try to chastise Dane in the slightest. He's a ghoul -- it's not his place.
"Kevo," Cheyenne says, finally sounding like she might be displeased. Even then, it's one of those 'I'm not mad at you, Kevo, I'm just /disappointed/' tones. "First of all... 'pussy' is a gendered slur that's demeaning to women -- such as me -- and as a guest in my haven, I'd really appreciate it if you left that kind of language outside. Secondly--" Cheyenne pauses, seeing Sveta move to speak. She looks curious, and actually holds her own tongue as she listens.
"They're sending a message, Sveta. They didn't want to waste them, because they're Anarchs. Not Sabbat. We don't /do/ diablerie." Cheyenne sounds every bit the Beverly Hills rich girl that she is when she says it like that. Diablerie can /not/ sit with us. "They want Oakwood -- it's where their gang operates. And this was their way of saying that it's no longer safe for the Westside Anarchs to exist there. But... am I being selfish, everyone, if I really just don't want to let them /have/ it without a fight...?"
"I don't know much of anything, but... like. There was this TV show that was popular a while back because it showed a lot of boobs and dicks and stuff. But they had this big 'Red Wedding' thing where the bad guys all got wiped out because they got lured in to some kind of peace treaty or something. I don't remember the details because of all the dicks. But I think it's a cool idea." Angel pipes in out of nowhere with her diatribe about dick-based TV shows.
Sveta narrows her eyes slightly at Cheyenne, more incredulously rather than anything else, at this little digression into diablerie. She inclines her head in understanding despite it. "So they hit you with eh, what it is called... kid gloves. Give your people bloody nose and hope you don't hit back harder? Either they're baiting you into something, expecting retaliation and eager for it, or they're so unconcerned with what your response could be that they decide they can get away with spitting in your face." The Russian takes a small breath - then holds her words for Angel. She looks over at the unfamiliar kindred. Her head cocks to the side, her train of thought completely hijacked by this suggestion.
"Uhh... da," she finds herself conceding. "She is right, I think. Far be it from my interest to dip my toes into turf disputes between various flavors of wayward political ideology, but if you want to fix this problem, violence of action is critical. They'll be ready for something head on. Hit them from the flank, and do it hard enough to scramble any guise of coordination they had going into this conflict."
Angel's suggestion gets an amused if ambiguous sounding chuff out of the Gargoyle. The gravely sounding, actually more like literal gravel, noise was about the only vocalization that Bartok had made all evening. He turns towards Sveta as the Russian gives her analysis on the situation.
Kevo will give Cheyenne a distinctly sullen look, though he'll offer a shallow nod of his head before crossing his arms across his chest in a semi-defensive fashion, "I've been in a bad situation or two before, Cheyenne. You know I'm tight...I just get intense sometimes." He is presumably referring to the period several years ago, when he was an Ecstasy and Call of Duty enthusiast, "So anyways," He grimaces, "How do we decide who gets to be Warlord?"
That is when the rainbow-haired girl will remove her pretty face from the mesh-shirted boy's shoulder and squeak, "I want to be Warlord!"
Whereupon Kevo will snap at her, "Fuck you, Lisa!"
Lisa will do a thing to Kevo with her tongue and making her fingers into a vee, which makes him blush angrily.
+LOSE/+BURN> Cheyenne burns 1 Blood. +LOSE/+BURN> Cheyenne burns 1 Willpower. +ROLL/+DICE> Cheyenne: Charisma + Performance vs. 7 -> 1 success.
Cheyenne looks over toward Alexis for a moment, as though there might be a legal perspective to be shone upon the matter of HBO's propensity for hardcore nudity. Or maybe she's thinking about something else. Her eyes cast back toward Angel and Sveta. "...I agree," she says. "But we can't be hasty... and we must be clever. There are a lot of avenues open to us th--"
Cheyenne's thought is interrupted by the squabbling between Kevo and Lisa. "/I/ decide who gets to be Warlord," she says. Her eyes are upon the pair, and her tone of voice shifts a bit. She sounds more focused, even though she's not raising her voice out if her meditation-aid tone. "If you want the job -- we'll talk about it later. If I give it to someone -- and the rest of you disagree with my decision... well. You're free to act. But I think that right now, with this threat to our domain... this is the time to show unity... and support for your Baroness... don't you agree~?"
There are a couple things that Kevo might have had to say about that. However...There's something about Cheyenne's tone which convinces him to maybe, quiet down for the moment. He just kinda keeps his arms in that defensive cross across his expensive shirted chest, and kinda sulks it up. He does however, offer a nod about unity.
For her part, the rainbow-haired Lisa with the waaaay too long fancy nails, will smile at her with happy acceptance, "Whatever you say, Chey-chey."
When the rainbow-haired girl wriggles out of the cold dead bossom of her boyfriend (or not) to declare her claim on Warlord the Bartok slowly lifts his glass as if in a toast towards Lisa. It seemed she had the Gargoyle's blessing or at least well wishing in her bid for the prestigious title of Warlord. Go team Lisa.
The rainbow-haired girl wriggles back up close against her mesh-shirted boyfriend, never knowing she had Bartok's vote in the bag!
Alexis observes this brief confrontation once again impassively. The position of Warlord is enticing to a particular kind of individual and so she isn't overly surprised by who contests for it. The decision isn't being made now in any case. When Cheyenne quiets both of them, the corners of her mouth turn up in just a very slight smile.
Sveta leans her ass back against a side-table between Bartok and Shawna. She lapses into silence, having offered her bit of unasked for advice. When Cheyenne sparkles just a little bit brighter as she addresses the squabbling undead, the Russian's vestigial blinks come a bit slower, her cool, blue gaze fixated on the pseudoligarch.
"I think tensions are running a little high tonight," Cheyenne says. "And... you know what... that's on me. I should have mixed it up and given us something to do that would let us blow off some steam. Next meeting like this I call... we'll do something... /fun/." Cheyenne's smile returns, like a teacher trying to assure her students that she's cool.
"In the meantime -- I want you all to think about this situation in front of us. We're Anarchs, not the Army. You weren't drafted. If you fight... it will be because you /want/ to fight. And if you don't want to fight... I promise, I won't hold it against you." Cheyenne makes sure that she's not looking at anyone in particular when she says that. Just in case. "Come to me with your thoughts. I want to fill those positions -- and I want to decide how to deal with the Oakwood situation. If we go in, fists flying and guns blazing... well. We might win. But it'll be by the skin of our fangs, most likely, and not all of you will see the night after. So. We come up with a way to /ensure/ our victory."
Cheyenne finds a fresh glass of human vitae, and lifts it. "To libertas, my friends. Enjoy yourselves. I hope to see a lot of all of you, very soon~."
Bartok lingers around a moment still loitering near Shawna and Sveta. He probably knew more than a few people, if they could be called that, here. Despite the allegiances being mostly Westside in name, the streets of Hollywood weren't exactly closed to their nightly frolics.
