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e l i j a h x p a t r o v
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t h e x v a m p i r e
#7B5653 || Outfit || townhall
#7B5653 || Outfit || townhall
The man was typically known for his punctuality, but he was late tonight. His broad frame wandered down the street; his figure moving along like a shadow floating quietly and darkly beneath the soft light of the moon. His hands were in his pockets and strking blue eyes flitting from here to there. Another black figure dashed in the dark, but he knew it to be the Demon's Hell Hound, so he pressed on and continued down the pathway down these lonlier town streets to the slightly busier townhall.
Since the attack, he has felt very much the same. When one is such a hunted species as he, there is no surprise that the Mortals always came. They destroyed everything, and it was only ever a matter of time. The Supernatural were never safe - not in a thousand years past, not in a hundred - not in this modern day. This was the life he was used to, and he has grown understandably callous to the casualties that come with this. It wasn't his fault. It was simply that life was so tragic that tragedy has become his sense of normalcy, thus this, to him, was the way of the world. For others, however, perhaps it was not. Everyone thought this would remain their home unscathed by mortal persecution, and that was their own fault. He felt bad for them, sure, but there was nothing he could do to ease anyone's pain. Not that they'd listen given his rather unearned reputation.
Just as the townhall came into view, though the humdrum inside has been playing into his acute sense of hearing for a while now, he noticed Markus and Jai outside. He pulled his hands from his pockets and braced their lower backs, some strange gust of wind parting the doors. Elijah always had this gravely calm tone of voice; masculine and gutturally harsh with notes of his mother-tongue. It resonated gruffly, yet strangely... melodic and calming. There were many ways to describe his voice, but confidence, command, and ease were the easiest to remember. "Going in?" It was one of those inquiries that might normally be accompanied by a smile, but instead, he gently guided them both through the doors with the placement of his hands. Was it one of those strange protective things that were subtle in nature? Perhaps. It was dark outside, and the streets were dismal as the town gathered.
Once the trio made their way into the Hall, the Vampire took a moment to take in Rosie's words. After the blurbs by the Chief and Rosie were done, he simply walked down the aisle. His eyes hardly met anyone else's, and he continued because who was going to stop him? No one. No one really liked him. Everyone stayed away from him. He liked it that way. It could stay. They could be afraid of him or call him what they will, but he didn't care about any of it. He's too old for the petty drama. Though he did sneak a side-peek toward Zada, but swiftly drew it away. He was just checking to make sure she was still there, even though he could smell her. Everyone has their own unique smell.
His steps ceased in front of Rosie, and two hands were placed upon her as gentle as a man could be; one of her elbow and another at her shoulder. He didn't smile, there was no expression to his otherwise serious features, but he tugged at her with something that could be easily misconstrued as asserting his masculinity over her. He never thought about it that way, but he was an old fart and she knew that he didn't mean any ill by it. There was the slightest hint of a smile for her in that fleeting second he believed no one was looking, however.
Once she was out of his way, he took his place in the front of the Hall. His hands grasped either side of the podium and he finally looked at each and every being in the room. He stopped at no one in particular as he commenced to speak with his deeply rumbling and harsh Slavic tongue, "They will come again - we know this because history always repeats itself. This is nothing new to some of us, but it is always tragic. This would be the time to put aside petty differences and settle the feuds in our community - to stop being each other's enemies." This time, his gaze falls pointedly on Camila. He likes her, but damn - she's such a handful and she's grown particularly less manageable and more agitating.
"We have many tools at our expense - more than our enemies if you ask me. They are stronger than mortals, but we are stronger. It is in our nature. There is a power-imbalance, and we hold the advantage. The problem is that we didn't know they were coming, but now we know. If you think you can't help, then you're going to die. You're going to cause someone else to die. Everyone in this town is a cog in the machine that runs it, and it's our duty to defend it."
He shifts away from the podium for a moment and then steps beside it, "If you own a business, perhaps you can help create a rallying point as a place of safety for those who can't fight. The town hall, for one, is easy to secure with the proper people. The bar and other stores - use them to stow weapons or tools that will assist us in fighting back. You may think that these people are gone, but I can assure you that they will return. These are zealous people that can trace their legacies spent persecuting others back centuries. But they do not always win, and we do persist. Speak up. I, for one, am out from sundown to dawn. Camila has her dogs on patrol day and night. There are people that will protect you even if you think they will not. A little less self-pity and more preparation will judge whether Greythorne will persist, too. So even if you don't think you have anything to contribute - search deep. Everyone can." He looked to Rosie for some sense of affirmation or something, and then just dipped to a seat someplace in the middle by himself.
Since the attack, he has felt very much the same. When one is such a hunted species as he, there is no surprise that the Mortals always came. They destroyed everything, and it was only ever a matter of time. The Supernatural were never safe - not in a thousand years past, not in a hundred - not in this modern day. This was the life he was used to, and he has grown understandably callous to the casualties that come with this. It wasn't his fault. It was simply that life was so tragic that tragedy has become his sense of normalcy, thus this, to him, was the way of the world. For others, however, perhaps it was not. Everyone thought this would remain their home unscathed by mortal persecution, and that was their own fault. He felt bad for them, sure, but there was nothing he could do to ease anyone's pain. Not that they'd listen given his rather unearned reputation.
Just as the townhall came into view, though the humdrum inside has been playing into his acute sense of hearing for a while now, he noticed Markus and Jai outside. He pulled his hands from his pockets and braced their lower backs, some strange gust of wind parting the doors. Elijah always had this gravely calm tone of voice; masculine and gutturally harsh with notes of his mother-tongue. It resonated gruffly, yet strangely... melodic and calming. There were many ways to describe his voice, but confidence, command, and ease were the easiest to remember. "Going in?" It was one of those inquiries that might normally be accompanied by a smile, but instead, he gently guided them both through the doors with the placement of his hands. Was it one of those strange protective things that were subtle in nature? Perhaps. It was dark outside, and the streets were dismal as the town gathered.
Once the trio made their way into the Hall, the Vampire took a moment to take in Rosie's words. After the blurbs by the Chief and Rosie were done, he simply walked down the aisle. His eyes hardly met anyone else's, and he continued because who was going to stop him? No one. No one really liked him. Everyone stayed away from him. He liked it that way. It could stay. They could be afraid of him or call him what they will, but he didn't care about any of it. He's too old for the petty drama. Though he did sneak a side-peek toward Zada, but swiftly drew it away. He was just checking to make sure she was still there, even though he could smell her. Everyone has their own unique smell.
His steps ceased in front of Rosie, and two hands were placed upon her as gentle as a man could be; one of her elbow and another at her shoulder. He didn't smile, there was no expression to his otherwise serious features, but he tugged at her with something that could be easily misconstrued as asserting his masculinity over her. He never thought about it that way, but he was an old fart and she knew that he didn't mean any ill by it. There was the slightest hint of a smile for her in that fleeting second he believed no one was looking, however.
Once she was out of his way, he took his place in the front of the Hall. His hands grasped either side of the podium and he finally looked at each and every being in the room. He stopped at no one in particular as he commenced to speak with his deeply rumbling and harsh Slavic tongue, "They will come again - we know this because history always repeats itself. This is nothing new to some of us, but it is always tragic. This would be the time to put aside petty differences and settle the feuds in our community - to stop being each other's enemies." This time, his gaze falls pointedly on Camila. He likes her, but damn - she's such a handful and she's grown particularly less manageable and more agitating.
"We have many tools at our expense - more than our enemies if you ask me. They are stronger than mortals, but we are stronger. It is in our nature. There is a power-imbalance, and we hold the advantage. The problem is that we didn't know they were coming, but now we know. If you think you can't help, then you're going to die. You're going to cause someone else to die. Everyone in this town is a cog in the machine that runs it, and it's our duty to defend it."
He shifts away from the podium for a moment and then steps beside it, "If you own a business, perhaps you can help create a rallying point as a place of safety for those who can't fight. The town hall, for one, is easy to secure with the proper people. The bar and other stores - use them to stow weapons or tools that will assist us in fighting back. You may think that these people are gone, but I can assure you that they will return. These are zealous people that can trace their legacies spent persecuting others back centuries. But they do not always win, and we do persist. Speak up. I, for one, am out from sundown to dawn. Camila has her dogs on patrol day and night. There are people that will protect you even if you think they will not. A little less self-pity and more preparation will judge whether Greythorne will persist, too. So even if you don't think you have anything to contribute - search deep. Everyone can." He looked to Rosie for some sense of affirmation or something, and then just dipped to a seat someplace in the middle by himself.