08-25-2018, 11:25 AM
[table][tr][td][div style="width: 70px; height:70px; background-image:url(https://i.imgbox.com/4XVwGFUK.png); background-size: cover; background-position: top;"][/td][td][div style="width: 100px; text-align: center; font-family: arial; font-size: 7pt; color: #8A8A8A; line-height: 100%; padding-top: 5px; padding-left: 10px; opacity: 0.75; text-transform: lowercase"]Secrets on Broadway to the freeway, you're a keeper of crimes; Fear no conviction, grapes of wrath can only sweeten your wine
[/td][/tr][/table][ ooc no rly this is the worst post and i am So sorry but ur posts. my kids. thank u ]
Given all the things he's seen, one wouldn't bet their pennies on anything odd being able to shake Rialto - not after how many years it's been. Not when a wraith runs the grocery store, fingers never managing to quite contact the register but somehow the right amount of change sliding itself over the counter; when Alex whooped and tossed sticks for werewolves to throw themselves into catching, every other night; when whispers crept through to dawn after most of the otherworldly populace quieted, ebbing long and traceless while the very first mortals began to stir. An open secret was what they called San Creado's local pest problem. They ducked down undercover for the sake of it, but to say they hid was a stretch.
Maybe you could call Rialto a touch idealistic. He didn't expect anything to surprise him anymore; he'd lapsed into complacency. Nowadays he lay in his Ferris wheel carriage for the better part of an entire week without a shred of aim, almost entirely off his guard which had once been to him a second skin, because you didn't bum around for a decade in some ride or die vampire colony without a couple of gashes and ten knives holstered somewhere on you at all times. It didn't occur to him, except in the briefest of moments, that something about San Creado would give eventually. Perhaps it had when he was first breaking in the carriage, but that was it. Rialto - wily languid vampire only externally not taking things seriously until that, eventually, became internal - kind of honestly thought very little would happen. Not that any of the citizens couldn't do something, but that they wouldn't.
It had been a hot minute since he breathed through his nose once Zach came. San Creado hadn't been at any means clean for the past fifty years, but it was still functional. If nothing else. Now, from any point in town, one just needed to inhale and they could catch the wind of something no one wanted to think about on a holiday, and considering vampires only needed minimal airflow that was okay for him. He didn't ask.
Rialto had never kept track of the news, really. He should have.
When he was veering into an alley to step out of the sun and start gingerly peeling off a few articles of the protective layers he had on in preparation for the moon to arise wholly (scarf, visor, earmuffs), he hadn't anticipated a whole column of light to downright blind him. It streaked high upwards, and the sudden stimulus striking the moment he'd lifted the visor sunglasses had Rialto dropping them with a sharp inaudible breath. Oh, and then the smell hit him. He stumbled back, blood accelerating, flattening against the wall; or, rather, attempting to, except somehow with all the pinpricks searing his eyes he missed the whole grimy couch that'd been left against the wall.
And so Rialto ended up flailing after the back of his calves hit something solid, and their local eighty year old vampire found himself thrown back into some mouldy sofa, front seat to an exchange he - with an infrequently exhibited speed of comprehension one grew to have once conning laypeople into paying for your meals became a five-year hobby, realised was something he actually hadn't wanted to know about, at all.
Corpse. Talking corpse. Speaking of corpses, said Rialto's head, Zach was sure a talking corpse.
More got the gears churning, faint juddering in a facet of his mind hardly attended to; the name, the smell, the body language.
Rialto opened his mouth, closed it three times as fast while blocking his nose and mouth to boot, and prepared a practised sort of dead-eyed gaze at Zachariah's back to meet his gaze the moment Zach turned with an expression that perfectly conveyed a plea only about half-expectant. Maybe he didn't really want answers. Maybe he was happier not getting them.
Given all the things he's seen, one wouldn't bet their pennies on anything odd being able to shake Rialto - not after how many years it's been. Not when a wraith runs the grocery store, fingers never managing to quite contact the register but somehow the right amount of change sliding itself over the counter; when Alex whooped and tossed sticks for werewolves to throw themselves into catching, every other night; when whispers crept through to dawn after most of the otherworldly populace quieted, ebbing long and traceless while the very first mortals began to stir. An open secret was what they called San Creado's local pest problem. They ducked down undercover for the sake of it, but to say they hid was a stretch.
Maybe you could call Rialto a touch idealistic. He didn't expect anything to surprise him anymore; he'd lapsed into complacency. Nowadays he lay in his Ferris wheel carriage for the better part of an entire week without a shred of aim, almost entirely off his guard which had once been to him a second skin, because you didn't bum around for a decade in some ride or die vampire colony without a couple of gashes and ten knives holstered somewhere on you at all times. It didn't occur to him, except in the briefest of moments, that something about San Creado would give eventually. Perhaps it had when he was first breaking in the carriage, but that was it. Rialto - wily languid vampire only externally not taking things seriously until that, eventually, became internal - kind of honestly thought very little would happen. Not that any of the citizens couldn't do something, but that they wouldn't.
It had been a hot minute since he breathed through his nose once Zach came. San Creado hadn't been at any means clean for the past fifty years, but it was still functional. If nothing else. Now, from any point in town, one just needed to inhale and they could catch the wind of something no one wanted to think about on a holiday, and considering vampires only needed minimal airflow that was okay for him. He didn't ask.
Rialto had never kept track of the news, really. He should have.
When he was veering into an alley to step out of the sun and start gingerly peeling off a few articles of the protective layers he had on in preparation for the moon to arise wholly (scarf, visor, earmuffs), he hadn't anticipated a whole column of light to downright blind him. It streaked high upwards, and the sudden stimulus striking the moment he'd lifted the visor sunglasses had Rialto dropping them with a sharp inaudible breath. Oh, and then the smell hit him. He stumbled back, blood accelerating, flattening against the wall; or, rather, attempting to, except somehow with all the pinpricks searing his eyes he missed the whole grimy couch that'd been left against the wall.
And so Rialto ended up flailing after the back of his calves hit something solid, and their local eighty year old vampire found himself thrown back into some mouldy sofa, front seat to an exchange he - with an infrequently exhibited speed of comprehension one grew to have once conning laypeople into paying for your meals became a five-year hobby, realised was something he actually hadn't wanted to know about, at all.
Corpse. Talking corpse. Speaking of corpses, said Rialto's head, Zach was sure a talking corpse.
More got the gears churning, faint juddering in a facet of his mind hardly attended to; the name, the smell, the body language.
Rialto opened his mouth, closed it three times as fast while blocking his nose and mouth to boot, and prepared a practised sort of dead-eyed gaze at Zachariah's back to meet his gaze the moment Zach turned with an expression that perfectly conveyed a plea only about half-expectant. Maybe he didn't really want answers. Maybe he was happier not getting them.