transfundere | Open RP

"It's a surgical saw," he corrects mildly before his hand closes and the blood retracts into him for the time being. There's a definite feeling that he feels better for having it in the right place. To the question, though, he nods.

"On a completely different note, you would do best not to get between me and such creatures in the future. Do you even know what that was?"

"Considering it went straight for my throat, I'm assuming some sort of vampire?" Dorian lightly rubs the spot on his throat where the skal went for it before he sighs.

"Really, the last one I dealt with was quite well behaved. I've no clue why this one's practically bloody feral."

"A skal," he specifies, "a weaker form of immortal though, as you say, they are vampires of a kind. And able enough to eviscerate a normal man or woman in their path."

He looks down at the poor unfortunate victim.

"I would do best to ensure this one does not rise the same way. I've no way to determine the strength of that skal's blood should any of it have gotten into the corpse."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not 'normal.'"

Dorian looks down at the corpse with a frown. He lightly nudges it with his foot, as if that will somehow tell them if the poor bloke's turned or not. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

"So what? Stake through the heart or leave him outside in the sun?"

"The stake would be less trouble, I think, and far less conspicuous," he says with a wry twist of his lips before he looks into his bag to pull out that very thing. It's a well-sharpened and he'll put it into the skal's heart without further ado. It's clear, however, he does not relish this.

"We would do well to figure out who this is, however, or there will be questions."

Dorian watches, interest on his face, as Reid does the deed and dispatches the poor thing.

"Mmm, there's going to be questions no matter what," he muses, as he looks down at the skal's body. "Questions that I'm sure the police will think about, but not actually say. Every time I'm in the middle of one of these public, messy pieces of work, it's always written down in the books as drugs."

"Do you work with the police?" he asks with a lift of his head and that is an unpleasant thought. To be caught out as something clearly supernatural in front of a police officer is not what he signed up for. Then again, perhaps there was a reason he hadn't gotten his polite nudge. Had he walked into the lion's den?

"What? No. But I know how this works. Buy me a drink sometime and I'll tell you all about how I dealt with this golem in the 1930s. The police weren't too pleased about that."

It's not that Dorian works with the police. It's just that he is exceedingly lassiez-faire about things like this.

“A golem. In the 1930s.”

There are quite a few things that he’s thinking about from that situation, but he’s not going to focus on any of them specifically. Instead, he breathes in deep and breathes out slowly.

“We should search the room. Information on the identity of our assailant, and the victim, will be useful.”

"Agreed," Dorian says. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a pair of leather driving gloves—he's not going to get his fingerprints more in the room than they already are.

"I'll search the corpses for a wallet, license, anything of the sort."

"I'll check the luggage and the rest of the room," because hopefully he can uses his senses to see places where they would have been poking about, whether there's blood in other places, whether there's something hidden somewhere.

Dorian nods. And, very carefully, he starts to examine the corpses. It's dispassionate, like he's done this plenty of times before (because he has). The skal doesn't have much of anything on him, unfortunately. But the victim...

"Found the victim's wallet," he sighs, as he pulls out the wallet. Opening it, he continues with, "And his driver's license. I'm standing over the corpse of one Taylor Smith."

"I don't know what they did for a living," he says mildly, but he'll turn the bag that he happened to be looking through and inside? Is a number of bundles of cash, straight from the bank, still strapped around. "but it appears that they were here for some manner of transaction."

"Drugs, perhaps?" Dorian reaches down to carefully unbutton his corpse's sleeve. He starts to gingerly roll it up, looking for trackmarks. "I can't think of any other reason why one might go to a hotel like this—aside from monster hunting, of course.

There don't seem to be trackmarks. But a little more examination finds him what the sinking spot in his stomach had made him suspect. He shakes his head as he finds another bag, one closer to the door. It has... well, it has a few bags of donation blood.

"I think not, actually."

Dorian gets up, pokes his head around Reid, and looks down at the bag full of blood.

"What, and I cannot stress this enough, the fuck," he muses, before squatting down to lightly poke one of the bags, as if confirming that yep, this is blood. "Is an illegal blood drive a thing that your lot often do?"

"I've heard of such things," he admits quietly, "but that operation is a bit more thoughtful about their storage; a bag like that isn't made to keep such samples fresh or unspoiled."

He pauses.

"But it might make sense if-" he glances over at the dead body, the skal. He goes to examine it further. He breathes in deep and slow and breathes out low.

"If you thought you were making an ekon," he says mildly, "and it turns out, you can only make skals."

Dorian swears slightly under his breath. He frowns, looking down at the mess of a corpse beneath him.

"I wonder when our man will realize his limitations—if he realizes his limitations in the first place."

Reid winces, because the likelihood is small, in his experience. It's not a problem he's ever had, given is origins, but he'd seen the way that 'Lord Redgrave' had behaved when his blood potency was challenged.

Thankfully, a few decades had softened some of his... difficulties with such talks so he can give a proper metaphor.

"How often have you found a man to admit to 'limitations' in his virility?"

He shakes his head. Anyone who'd been this convinced he'd make an Ekon could very well be convinced it was something wrong with the object of his change, something wrong with the process.

Dorian lets out a small, bitter laugh at that. Too true. "Usually dick-waving contests are less murderous," he dryly responds.

He puts the corpse's wallet back in his pocket as he stands back up and makes the thing look like...well, like a corpse. Not like a corpse that's been rummaged through.

"I can't help but wonder. If we can sort out the type of man this vampire goes for, perhaps we could at least have an idea of where to look next. If they're all picked up at a club or work for a certain business, for example."

"I'd guess, from choosing this hotel, at least, it's someone with money." He winces a little as he thinks back. "I've seen it before, to be fair: the rich who cannot fathom the idea of anything their money cannot buy them, including immortality."

"Fortunately, I'm also rich," Dorian points out, as he gets to his feet. "I can ask around to see if anybody I know has heard of something like this—discreetly, of course. The last thing I want is our perp to try and take me out for getting in his way."

Though hold on a minute. As Dorian says that, his expression shifts to a small frown. That's not entirely the worst idea.

"I don't like the expression you're making," he says honestly, because... he really really doesn't. It seems like someone's considering foolish things.

"What are you thinking?"

"Why don't we have our perp try to take me out for getting in his way? After all, it's not going to stick. I can't die."

Someone is considering aggressively foolish things.

He looks over at Dorian and raises an eyebrow at him carefully.

"Have you considered the danger you might be in should those involved realize you cannot die?"

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brushoff - 2021-11-19 14:38 (UTC) - Expand

SORRY FOR BEING TERRIBLE

transfundere - 2022-01-03 16:33 (UTC) - Expand