1/18/10

Stay Classy, Benicio Romero

"Oooh!  Way to put me in my place."  Benicio thumps the table, pleasantly ammused with the reaction he'd incited.  He stands, adjusts the lapels of his black and gray vest, the collars of his silver polyester shirt, and the sides of the wide mohawk.   And then, he begins to recite his own lineage.

He knows why they do this.  He recognizes yet another method for sizeing each other up.  Obviously he's done it often enough to mention the names and exploits of all four Kindred between himself and Troile.  More names between himself and Caine than many in the room, but also more names to have passed down their aggression, cruelty, and passion.  Each city destroyed, each stewardship sacked, each decade of barbarism and banditry he names with gusto and a gleaming grin as the light reflects off the gold teeth flanking his left fang.

When he's done he sits again, looking around the conference table for whoever would speak up next.  And while he waits, one steel toed boot thumps on the far edge of the table, and the other rests crudely on top.

For someone who considered this all a hassle, the Brujah seemed to be quite pleased with having gushed at his predecessors, and therefore himself.

[January, 2009]

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