Logs:Cold Revenge, Two Servings Per Container
Cold Revenge, Two Servings Per Container
|Characters:||Jacob and Seth as ST.|
|Summary:||Jacob decides to dress up for a New Orleans street festival, and gets robbed. But then the hunter becomes the prey.|
A warm and windy New Orleans day…
The annual NOLA Caribbean Festival normally falls around June each year, when the summer is winding up and party season has already been kicked off in the Crescent City. Most of the festivities are kept on festival grounds: it’s possible to hear the thrum of the bass over the noise of the city in some places, and even in areas far away from the festival there are colorfully dressed party-goers visiting the local establishments, sometimes catching a meal at a restaurant. A museum in the French Quarter, a riverboat cruise on the Creole Queen, a few scattered parties at hotels and outdoor areas… the whole downtown of New Orleans is popping, today.
For the casual non-participant, though, there’s a parade slinking down the streets of New Orleans. Right now it’s on Canal Street in the heart of the French Quarter, a few vehicles pumping music and decorative Caribbean-themed floats and a group of partiers maybe 150-strong trailing along behind. It’s mixed right in with the regular foot traffic of New Orleans, and although one side of the road has been closed to accommodate the parade… it’s evident that NOLA is a city with over 100 proper festivals a year, as it doesn’t bring the daily bustle of the city to a halt. The partiers are dressed colorfully and in summer clothing, some sporting feathers or other ceremonial-chic partywear in the style of the cultural melting pot that is New Orleans.
”New Orleans: The Northernmost City of the Caribbean” reads a banner flying over the lead party van, also adorned with the city’s symbolic fleur de lis. The vehicles also hand out chilled water and soda to the partiers following behind, and there is a general atmosphere of merriment on the street… and in the city, in general.
Ah, a festival! Jacob does love a good festival. The celebration, the excitement, the chaos that generally runs rampant. Jacob might have made a good Spring courtier, except it's not desire the drives him. It's boredom. And what better way than to relieve it than with a celebration?
He makes his way through the crowd, dressed in his usual suit, although sans jacket today. New Orleans is hot as it is, and crowds only make it moreso. He partakes in some food, in some drink, he amuses himself. And then he sees the parade weaving through the crowd. The Fairest in him calls out to him. He must join it! But, as it is, he's not properly dressed.
And so he begins his mission of finding those who are, who are in the crowd or have strayed to far from the main parade. Because he needs a costume, and everybody has a price. He'll find one, and he'll join the parade.
There are many street vendors here, set up along the parade route and selling their wares to the passing tourists and the occasional enthusiastic local. But it's New Orleans, after all: Jacob manages to find a proper costume shop on Canal Street, no surprise there, and after asking a few questions, manages to find some lightweight green robes that are comfortable and stylish in a Caribbean fashion. It's not the same vibe as the t-shirt and shorts that most of the partiers are wearing, but it's important to look stylish, after all. The costume shop employee also selects an appropriate green gemstone neck clasp to complete the look, matching the shade of the robe.
Once outside, an enthusiastic group of partiers notice Jacob's outfit and promptly entreat him to let them paint his face with a symbol in the style of the Santeria saint Oggun, who Jacob now resembles the traditional attire of. The two partiers, a man and woman both with dark skin and smeared bits of paint and colored dust on them, manage to create a surprisingly intricate image on Jacob's forehead that looks like a flower from afar, but has a number of flourishes and touches to make it significantly more abstract.
All of this complete, Jacob abruptly realizes one thing... the bag of his previous, fancy clothes isn't where he left it.
It is important to be stylish. Jacob would never be caught in /shorts/. The mere thought of it causes a shudder. No, he needs something else. Something with flair and mystery. Something that will stand out. And then he finds the costume shop. Perfect. He enters and after a bit of haggling and a few little quiet smiles, he manages to get... well, not a great deal, but he manages to get something.
He seems to enjoy the robe fully, going so far as to strike several different poses in it, enjoying the way it flows around him. The neck clasp seems to delight him, as well. So vibrant, so /noticable/, but only somewhat gaudy. Perfect. He's so pleased by the time he leaves the shop that he agrees to the face painting readily. And he's pleased by that, too. He's loving it. He just /has/ to take a picture to send to Mingzhu. What a surprise that will be!
Only, the real surprise is that he doesn't /have/ his phone. He must have left it in his pants pocket. Oh. That could be bad. He's clever enough that there isn't much on his phone that could be tracked back to him, business-wise. But there is that /one/ picture. The one he just had to take, wearing the tiara that went missing from the museum a few weeks ago, that he sent to Mingzhu. /That/ could be a problem.
He mentally retraces his steps, to where he set that bag of clothes down. Only it's not there. Suddenly, his delight turns to something else. His dark eyes harden and his jaw sets. Very few people have ever experienced Jacob angry. But someone is about to. He looks around, taking in his surroundings. Possible escapes and possible suspects.
Perception: 3 successes.
Jacob's eyes were upon a large section of the street the whole time, and he is certain he didn't see anyone walking past him carrying that particular bag. That narrows it down almost immediately to a fairly small sub-section of the street, and a small list of possible suspects who could have managed to grab it from behind him and then double-back. Now the operative question is: did they keep going down the sidewalk, or leave down one of the side alleys?
It's a quick assessment as Jacob performs it, and as he's scanning possible side-alleys, he even sees a silhouette ducking into one of them... very possibly carrying that same bag. Is he that lucky? Perhaps, though his sharp eyes helped.
Aha! He catches sight of the silhouette of the person with the bag. The bag that is definitely his. And the person who is ducking into an alleyway. He smiles slowly to himself. And it's a good thing the crowd can't see his true self because those dark, alien eyes, the fangs, and the smile all combine to turn him from a delighted boy enjoying the festivities to a predator out for metaphorical blood.
He starts after the man, swishing through the crowd. At least the costume is less out of place than the expensive, tailored suit he normally wears. He has some chance of actually blending in this chaotic crowd. And then he's ducking into the alleyway, working to close the distance between him and the culprit, and to catch him before he exits on the other side.
Meanwhile, the Glamour wells within him, shifting the fabric of reality around him. Increasing his luck. And he already knows what he's going to do, he just needs to get close enough to do it.
Changing Fortunes: 5 successes.
In a flash, predator and prey end up in the alleyway. The street thief isn't aware he's being pursued, at first, but goosebumps on the back of his neck inexplicably cause him to look over his shoulder. And then Jacob locks eyes with the man who's stolen the bag, and a wave of fear briefly washes over the petty footpad. It's a man with tanned skin and dark hair, in his mid to late twenties. He's got aviator sunglasses and a jean jacket on, and long jeans and tennis shoes. He's dressed uncharacteristically heavily for the weather, and in the moment that their eyes lock... even though Jacob can't see the man's eyes, he can viscerally feel the 'Oh shit!' moment of catching sight of a predator following him that lurches through the street thief like lightning.
And then he turns and begins running off towards the far end of the alleyway at top speed... but then there's abruptly a large cargo truck, backing up into the alleyway from the street outside and totally blocking off that particular exit. The thief stumbles backwards to dodge the sudden truck, his aviators falling to the ground and being crushed under one of the vehicle's large tires. "What the /fuck,/ man!"
Jacob is still approaching, and the thief casts his now visible and frightened eyes back towards the green-robed Fairest. They're not far apart now. The tanned man desperately goes for a nearby fire escape, jumping onto a dumpster, but he's shaken and not especially quick about it. Plenty of time for Jacob to do something.
Jacob's angry. He's so very, very rarely angry. His emotions tend to be faraway, whimsical things. It's part of why he hasn't joined a Court. But when those emotions crash down, they crash down with all the intensity of a Fairest. He chases after the man, speeding up, gaining ground. The truck passing causes a detour and Jacob sees the man's movements, darting to the side and reaching out, fingers brushing the man as he lets the full force of his presence his the man. That usually makes them stop. Only, this time it doesn't.
Jacob doesn't take the time to think about /why/, though, not right now. Instead, there's a flare of anger and he growls. He has to stop the man, preferably before he escapes the alley. Otherwise it's going to be chaos in the middle of a parade and festival. At this point, though, Jacob doesn't care. The man not only has his /stuff/, he's now pissed him off by not stopping.
"Oh no you fucking don't," is murmured to himself, and then he's chasing after the man. Angry /and/ cursing. This is the Jacob that no one ever sees.
Paralyzing Presence: Contested fail (goes to Thief).
Thief: 2 success Athletics roll to climb the fire escape.
Jacob vs Thief: Net 2 successes for Jacob on Paralyzing Presence with Glamour spend.
There's something about Jacob that's just... scary. It has this guy spooked, for sure, and he's leaping up onto a dumpster like a monkey. Then he grabs ahold of the fire escape, pulls himself up and over the metal railing, and... pulls out a cellphone, as he stares down at the furious Jacob in the alleyway.
The thief is dialing a number as he starts jogging up the fire escape, putting the cellphone to his ear. Then suddenly he's talking into the cellphone, panicked and with a faintly Cajun or Jamaican accent. "Winston, mon, who da fuck did you have me steal from? The fuck is this guy? Some kinda monk? Rasta, mon? This is some fu-" And then he's abruptly paralyzed, the cellphone falling from his stiff fingers with a clatter and landing on a pile of black trash bags below the fire escape. The thief himself stumbles, face-planting onto the metal stairs in front of him with a 'thunk!' and a muted grooooooooan from deep in his chest as he falls into the dumpster below.
Jacob is getting tired of this man's shit. Already. He just wants his phone back. And his suit. Because not it's not about the loss, it's about the /principle/. And so this time he doesn't try to touch the man, he just focuses all of his attention, his anger, his /presence/ at the man. He has a mask, but that doesn't hide that Fairest in him. For a brief moment, that shines through, unseen but felt, and the man is dropping.
Jacob is /not/ Summer, though. Or any other Court. He feels emotion, as strongly as any Fairest, but he's also smart. He caught those words. He knows what they mean. So when the man falls, he's reaching in, snagging the bag back. And then scrounging for the man's phone.
He turns towards the man and murmurs in a honey-sweet, British accented tone, "I'm sure you already regret meeting me. You're going to regret it a /lot/ more if you don't go right back to your master and tell him I'm coming for him." With that, he's dropping the dumpster lid, letting the man enjoy a few moments as trash. Two phones are tucked away and the bag with his suit is crumpled and hidden beneath the robes. No sense anybody finding that laying around now.
He heads out of the alley before the man has a chance to respond, weaving through the crowd, snagging a drink, and making his way away to somewhere he can examine this other phone.
By the time that Jacob is preparing to leave, the cargo truck that had blocked the mouth of the alley has pulled away... extremely conveniently, in fact, giving Jacob a clean line of exit down the road that had been previously blocked to the thief.
And then he's off and away, searching through the newfound thief's surprisingly fancy smartphone. A contact name. Winston De Viliers. A few outgoing and incoming phone calls, no text messages, except two. From just thirty minutes ago. One of them is a picture of Jacob, still in his fancy suit. It must have been taken by someone who was less than 20 feet away from Jacob, and it was sent from Winston's number. And then a line of text. 'Canal St. Get me his phone. Bonus for the threads.'
From Jacob's spot on a comfortable bench that's been set out, he can still observe the parade passing by on its way towards the Mississippi board walk. Some of them are waiting to board the Creole Queen, one of the many vintage riverboats that facilitate party cruises down the river. And the NOLA Caribbean Festival has booked itself a spot. As they pass by Canal Street and away, things are much quieter. Some glitterdust blows in the balmy New Orleans breeze as it winds down the street, and the only ambiance is the comfortable noise of foot traffic and passing cars.
Extremely convenient. That is not lost on Jacob. He takes note of the truck as it drives away. Any noticeable details, beyond advertisement stickers and license plates which can be easily changed. He's looking for benter bumpers, scratched paint, balding tires. And of course if he catches the other details, all the better.
And then he's losing himself in the crowd. A while later, and a long ways from the alleyway, he's found himself some foodcart grub, and a drink, and he's hanging out on a bench. Nothing weird about that - there are costumes everywhere, and people need to take breaks from the festivities. And who, these days, isn't on their phone? Still, Jacob is paying attention to those nearby. Looking for anyone paying too much attention to him. And he skims through the phone.
He takes a bite of his food, a swig of his drink, and mulls his options over. There's a flicker of a smile on his face. The Fairest is actually enjoying this. Finally, he decides on a number and he presses call, from the thief's phone. To Ratface. When the phone is answers, he speaks, "Hello, friend. It seems that Fobi ran into a little trouble. I wouldn't be surprised is he met an unfortunate end due to his mistakes. You don't make mistakes, though, do you? You'll do everything I tell you to avoid that, won't you? Mistakes never end well. Wise decisions, though, can be /very/ lucrative. Meet me at Creole House Restaurant and Oyster Bar in 30 minutes. I'll be waiting."
Intimidation Check: 2 successes.
The truck's license plate is a bit strange and twisting, almost illusory. It reads: "J8krlz," and Jacob would note that the truck actually merges into traffic and vanishes not too long after, like it had never been there.
Nobody seems to be observing Jacob in his green robes, he's just another guy on the street. A small group of people attending the Caribbean Festival do stop to compliment him on his costume, in passing, but that's about the extent of the attention that he gets.
And then the phone is ringing. "What the..." Ratface is a man, somewhat high-pitched, and his accent is definitely not Cajun or Jamaican. It sounds almost New York, East Coast at the least. "Who do you think you are, you think this is The Godfather? What the hell did you do to Fobi-boy? You think you're tough? You wanna go? I'll-" There's a rustling as the phone is moved abruptly, and then a different voice appears on the other end of the phone. "You gonna pay for the food, mon," a male Jamaican voice, deeper than Ratface, says on the other end, and then the line hangs up.
30 minutes later, though, in the Creole House restaurant…
There's a quiet little smile as Jacob catches sight of that license plate. He should have known, but it's been a chaotic few moments and his Clarity isn't as healthy as it once was. He gets it know, though, and he murmurs, "My thanks, Lady Luck." And then there's work to do. At some point, he ditches that bag of clothes. Not into some garbage can, but given to someone who looks like they need some new clothes. The pieces of the suit will be divided, the bag disposed of, and good luck anybody tracking down the source. Theoretically, of course.
He has thirty minutes, half of which will be needed to get to the destination. Which means he has a little time to weave through the crowd, to compliment some costumes, to have himself a drink. When he arrives, all festivities are cast aside and he steps in. Two steps in, his dark eyes cast a glance around the establishment. He's never seen the person, but he knows what he's looking for. He's been a spy for most of his life - he can pick them out. Or so he believes.
He offers a little smirking smile, moving slowly into the room. Casual, confident. Why, he hasn't has this much fun in a while. That brazen entry might be insanity. Or cunning. Jury's out.
Rat Face is obvious at a glance: faded blonde hair, face like he was pinched on the cheeks too many times as a kid and stuck that way. Sunken features, beady little dark eyes, some tattoos on his neck and upper arms to add to his aura of sketchiness. He and his group have somehow gotten tables in a reserved party area, well away from the main dining room. Jacob spots them without too much searching, but it's Rat Face's companions who are more obvious. One of them is likely Braids Mon: Tall, tanned and Jamaican, with Rastafarian-styled braids in a mane running down past his shoulders with jewelry and golden cuffs threaded among them. They're both dressed for summer, in loose t-shirts and khaki shorts. Their postures are defensive, and Braids Mon's arms are folded... but they seem to be on good behavior, because of the third guy. Well, the third guy and his monkey.
Somehow, nobody's commented on the fact that a white-furred, albino monkey is in the restaurant, or everyone just... can't see it. Their eyes move past it, but there's none of the usual exclamations of surprise or wonderment. It's like it's not even there. Jacob can see spot it, of course, and it turns to look at him with dull red eyes from across the dining room, through a pane of glass.
The white monkey sits on the shoulder of a third fellow, who also has braided, white hair. His too-pale skin is covered in tattoos, but he doesn't come off as any type of supernatural creature despite his strange appearance. He's young-looking, somewhere in his 20's, and the tattoos he has seem to be ritualistic in nature... Santeria, maybe, or Voudoun. Or some stranger off-shoot still.
The albino man with the braids is munching on an order of fresh bread in a small basket filled with white cloth, not seeming perturbed at his dining situation. He doesn't look up, but strangely enough, the monkey on his shoulder raises up an arm in a very human-like beckoning gesture and seems to be calling Jacob over.
Jacob's dark gaze moves across the group. It lingers on Ratface for a moment, a rather wicked tugging at his lips. A solid /stare/ and a promise. He's kind of missed making people uncomfortable. It's starting to come back to him. And it ignites something within him. Something that's been growing, but held back due to his dedicate to his people, to the Freehold, to the Accord. But right now, none of that is in play and he's feeling a little bit... himself.
He notes the attitudes of those around the albino, of the staff, of the money. And then he strides up to the table, confident. How much of that is fueled by that feeling of being wrong? How much by the need to unravel the mystery? How much simply because this is the most exciting thing to have happened in /hours/?
He smiles at the albino and says, "Send them away. Just you and me." A polite challenge. After all, what could the man be afraid of? It's public, he's got his goons nearby, etc, etc. At least that's what his even gaze seems to say. He waits, pausing at the table and simply standing there, as if he has all the time in the world.
A snort of air, a muted laugh, moves through the albino man's nose. At this close distance, he's wearing earrings and jewelry in a strange, shamanistic style... and a Bob Marley t-shirt and jeans. "Go back to your drinks, boys," says the albino man in remarkably unaccented English. "But, boss!" Rat Face complains almost immediately, jolting to his feet. This receives a hard stare from the albino man, who then waves a hand dismissively. "C'est bon. Go." Like teenagers sent to their rooms, the two street thugs shuffle out of the dining area. Then the albino man looks up to Jacob, all smiles.
"Bon ami! So glad you could make it," he speaks French like a native, but transitions back to English with only a vague American accent quite easily. "I am Winston, as you have no doubt surmised," the man says, leaning back in a way that causes his bone-earrings to bounce as he looks up at Jacob. "Please, take a seat. The bread is hot, and a pot of jambalya should be coming to get us started, yes? I understand you managed to inconvenience one of my men. Water under the bridge, yeah? I am thrilled to see you here. What is your name?"
Jacob waits for the others to be excused. He gives an especially long look at Ratface, watching him intently with a little, rather disturbing smile playing across his lips. He murmurs, "Tell Fobi to try a bit harder. He's embarrassing his boss." He turns back to Winston with a smile. Once the others have departed, he moves to take a seat. Whether it's because he was invited to or because he wants to is unclear. Either way, it's not in the booth. He grabs a nearby chair, flips it around, and straddles it. It does require him hiking up the robe a bit, but he doesn't seem to mind showing off his calves.
He focuses that dark gaze on Winston. Jacob is pale, himself, but with the darkest eyes, with a mop of dark, unruly curls on his head, and with a perpetual shadow about him. Not a physical shadow, but something more abstract, more subtle, more Fae.
Jacob takes a moment to tear off a piece of bread, to dip it in the offered jambalya, to enjoy it. And he does, savouring the Southern taste. He looks at Winston, then, smiling. "I'm sure you already know it." One of them, at least. "Why don't you tell me why you wanted my phone?" He takes a bite, licking his fingers, then adds, "It's better to start as friends than enemies, don't you think?"
Winston shakes his head, braided white hair falling around him, before he sweeps it back and behind him and likewise takes some bread when the jambalya pot arrives in the hands of one of the servers. "I don't, actually. You just looked like another rich guy on the street." He rips off a piece of the white bread, raising it up in Jacob's direction with a sardonic smirk of amusement. At this close distance... it's easy to notice that Winston's eyes are the same dull red as his shoulder monkey's.
"I wanted your tailor's information, though, those were some nice threads. My business has been taking off, you see, and I need some better clothes. Something more... professional." Winston looks down at his Bob Marley shirt with that same not-quite-laughing expression on his features. He seems to be of African descent, despite the white discolored albinism of his skin. "It's a scam we run on the streets, see. Lift a rich guy's wallet, and it's all plastic. No ID theft, all the cards frozen as soon as it's reported missing. Can't get anything out of them, jah?" Tsk tsk tsk, he says, waving the piece of bread admonishingly before dipping it in the jambalya and eating it. Once he's chewed and swallowed a mouthful of water afterwards, he continues, "But you take the phone, mon. You take the phone, there's pictures of the wife, the girlfriend or boyfriend, the drugs, ... the trophies, yeah? The rich guys, they always love to keep their trophies. It's the thing they all have in common. They gotta keep score of how many times they fucked the world."
Winston laughs again, short but enthusiastic." We just wanted your trophies, so you could buy it back from us in cash. Good old fashioned blackmail." Winston offers a toothy grin across the table to Jacob. "Nothing personal. I have no idea who you are, besides some guy wearing green." He takes a look over Jacob's costume with a smirk, but it is New Orleans. No one's gonna be surprised, especially during summer festivals. "This is just my side gig, bon ami."
Jacob rolls Intelligence + Empathy to read Winston, 4 successes. Gets the following information.
<OOC> Seth says, "The first one is, this guy is clearly into some heavy occult shit. You have enough Occult that the markings and tattoos on him have real power. He's not any kind of supernatural being you've ever seen, and he's not /quite/ an empowered mortal. He's getting his powers from something else, like... a creature gave them to him. And a weird type of creature, at that. Number two, just based on the clown-car of subordinates this guy has, good luck actually robbing any competent supernatural being with them. It's most likely that they just mistook you for some random mortal, or they're the most incompetent supernatural thieves you've ever met. Number three, this guy Winston is definitely feeling you out in case you're a potential threat. He's not a big player: he doesn't know the actual supernatural world of New Orleans, he might not even be Accorded. But he knows that you are, and he's wary of you because of that. If you're a big fish and he's a small fish, he might just get run over."
Jacob listens to Winston's words. He takes them all in easily, helping himself to his food. He consumes voraciously, but neatly. He has a hungry appetite, but he knows how to clean up after himself. How to wield it properly. When Winston finishes speaking, those dark eyes shift towards the man and Jacob offers one of those quiet smiles.
"You picked the wrong man, my friend. However, there might still be a way for you to save yourself. Fobi. I want him destroyed. Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't want him hurt. I want his job, gone. His family, gone. His friends, gone. You get my drift?" He takes another bite, enjoying the jambalya. "If you can do that, you just might be someone I can use. Which, I hear, it as covetable position." He pops some bread into his mouth, all the while watching the albino intently.
He wipes his fingers. "Delicious, thank you." He stands, then smiles. "Also, should you not destroy /him/, I will destroy /you/. Piece by piece. The fates themselves will seem against you." He smiles broadly. then holds up a finger. "No murder. Just make his life miserable. I'll be watching." A pause, then, "/Very/ lucrative." He winks, then makes to depart.
His intent was to get revenge on the person who attempted to wrong him. But his Fae training has prevailed. He's willing to manipulate someone else into doing it for him. And then dealing with the more challenging pawn. He does love a challenge.
Jacob spends Willpower and rolls Intelligence + Intimidation, getting 4 successes.
Winston blinks, a few times, bread and jambalya half-way to his mouth, and then sets the crust down on the plate in front of him. He stares at the departing silhouette of Jacob, and continues staring for a solid five minutes after the man... or... creature, makes its departure. Then he closes his eyes, and the eyes of the monkey on his shoulder abruptly shine red like flashlights. The monkey gives out a screech before hopping across the table and on out of the restaurant itself, around a few diners who are just entering - and don't seem to notice it.
After a long silence, maybe 30 minutes, the jambalya in front of Winston has gone cold, but no one has shown up to take it away, or even ask for his order. They've all left the creepy albino voodoo guy well enough alone, or perhaps the world has forgotten about him. At length, he pulls out a cellphone from a pocket of his jeans, and then punches through a few screens on the glowing rectangle before raising it up to his ear. "Ja, mon. Fobi? He's done. Don't give him work anymore. It's finished. Yeah. Nothing, not even robbing old ladies at the care center for their government checks, you hear me? Ja." And then he hangs up and the phone clatters to the table in front of him.The albino man is staring at his darkened smartphone for a long time, the cold and fearful sweat on his forehead cooling against the hot New Orleans summer day.