Encounterlogs
Lorenzos Odd Encounter Sr Kah 250402
At the subdued ambiance of the Succubus Club's Front Bar and Lounge, Lorenzo had carried himself with the ease and mastery of a seasoned bartender, his interactions with patrons marked by the kind of rare attention that remembered names and preferred drinks. His tattoos, the intriguing gleam in his eyes, and a unique blend of vanilla and whiskey in the air around him spoke of stories untold, making his presence behind the bar not just noticeable, but memorable. Amidst the club's near-spiritual dance of light and shadow, Lorenzo's art transcends mere bartending, becoming a silent testament to his unknown depths.
On a darker note, Ritsuka's predatory nature finds her in a grim scenario far from the club, as she leads a child into the forest, hinting at her malicious intentions disguised under the veil of Sanctuary's limitations. This distasteful act is a stark contrast to the elegance Ritsuka later displays when cornered alongside Lorenzo, their fates intertwined by an unexpected captivity. A swift and bloody rescue mission unfolds, revealing Ritsuka's powerful connections that command ninja-like precision and loyalty, effortlessly deciding the fate of their captors. In these chaotic and gruesome moments of liberation, both Lorenzo and Ritsuka maintain an eerie composure, their interactions laced with a mutual understanding of their worlds' dark corners, suggesting that their encounter—strange, violent, yet strangely respectful—might just be the beginning of a compelling narrative.
(Lorenzo's odd encounter(SRKah):SRKah)
[Mon Mar 24 2025]
At the Front Bar and Lounge of The Succubus Club
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is afternoon, about 47F(8C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been abducted and is being held hostage by a supernatural criminal out to trade them for something or just use them as a shield against the factions. Your target must attempt to find a way to escape, or simply survive until they can be rescued by their allies.
)
Lorenzo moves behind the bar like he was born to it - measured, fluid, never rushed. The navy-striped dress shirt hugs a form carved by time and obsession, sleeves rolled just high enough to display veins like river maps and the inked echoes of history and hell. The silver and gold at his wrist catches the LED glow, gleaming as his hands -strong, clean, confident- pour bourbon with care, flick lime into a vodka tonic, and slide a glass across the smoked glass surface with practiced ease.
He doesnt speak often, but when he does, his voice is warm and deliberate. Names are remembered. Drinks come without asking, for those whove earned that familiarity.
Patrons lean in, sometimes just to watch - the tattoos, the gleam in those bright blue eyes, the scent of vanilla, whiskey, and something else something harder to name.
He offers a nod here, a faint smirk there. A small exchange. A shared silence. A flicker of something deeper.
This isn't just bartending. Its presence.
Lorenzo tends the Succubus like a man tending a flame - quiet, precise, and not entirely harmless all the vibe, thrum, beat of Midnight Departure: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQXs9HWS9NE&list=PLOraLXYTXqXtWcKDflA8y7eCiVz8ByZ0z&index=17
Lorenzo moves behind the bar like he was born to it - measured, fluid, never rushed. The navy-striped dress shirt hugs a form carved by time and obsession, sleeves rolled just high enough to display veins like river maps and the inked echoes of history and hell. The silver and gold at his wrist catches the LED glow, gleaming as his hands -strong, clean, confident- pour bourbon with care, flick lime into a vodka tonic, and slide a glass across the smoked glass surface with practiced ease.
He doesnt speak often, but when he does, his voice is warm and deliberate. Names are remembered. Drinks come without asking, for those whove earned that familiarity.
Patrons lean in, sometimes just to watch - the tattoos, the gleam in those bright blue eyes, the scent of vanilla, whiskey, and something else something harder to name.
He offers a nod here, a faint smirk there. A small exchange. A shared silence. A flicker of something deeper.
This isn't just bartending. Its presence.
Lorenzo tends the Succubus like a man tending a flame - quiet, precise, and not entirely harmless all the vibe, thrum, beat of Midnight Departure: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQXs9HWS9NE&list=PLOraLXYTXqXtWcKDflA8y7eCiVz8ByZ0z&index=17 (repost)
Frankly, Ritsuka(Kitsune) was not doing anything that could be considered innocent, dragging a child - a boy, with teeth around his poor, small hand out to the forest. She could not kill him, of course not. Sanctuary stops as much, but the crying, the sheer and pure terror, the pain and suffering... how could a monster find anything as raw as this? Of course this was close near the western end of the city, where the downtrodden live, from near where Harriet's mansion stands and the succubus club lies. Just a single quick sweep in, a nibble and then the dragging out.
Perhaps she will need to cover this up more, but taking his memories later will be simple, and with the sheer incompetence the city is displaying with repairing and fixing anything in the wake of her ascension, well, who is going to cause her any trouble for it? if there was a time for it, it would be now.
This afternoon, things are rolling along on the same winding cylce that perpetuates as it always does here in the small town of Haven. As the wheel turns, patterns come and go, and come again. Lorenzo is engaged in the art of his own craft, slipping and gliding between customers and patrons with an ease that comes with experience and a natural charisma and talent for the job. Somewhere there in the club and amongst the crowd, Ritsuka(Kitsune) focuses on the prey that they've to call for, stalking and luring as they do. She'll almost make it out the door of course, but then there's a sudden commotion, and voices are rising all around! What's happening, it doesn't seem clear but all of the sudden the pair of Lorenzo and Ritsuka(Kitsune) will suddenly find a sharp Pain blossoming in the back of their skulls before everything goes dark.
Your mind stirs sluggishly, as though clawing its way back from the depths of a suffocating void. Theres no gentle return to wakefulness, no easing into the comfort of soft light or warmth. Instead, a heavy throb pounds relentlessly behind your temples, each pulse driving home the disorientation that clouds your thoughts. Your skull feels thick, as if packed with wool, and the ache is a cruel percussion that drowns out your first attempts to piece together how you got here, or even where here is. First thing you notice is the cold. It seeps into your body like an unwelcome guest, wrapping around you and burrowing into your bones. You feel it most sharply in your wrists, which are raw and stinging from the unforgiving scrape of coarse rope binding them together. It bites into the delicate skin, tight enough to hinder circulation, but not tight enough to numb you entirely to its presence. Your body is stiff, awkwardly angled in a metal chair that groans with protest as you shift slightly. The surface beneath you is hard and unyielding, and a layer of grime clings to your skin where it meets the chair, a sticky, unpleasant reminder of how long youve been here; however long that might be.
When you finally force your eyes to crack open, the world is an impenetrable blur. Darkness envelops the room, thick and heavy, but not complete. A faint, erratic light flickers above you, casting the space in fleeting moments of dim illumination before plunging it back into shadow. The bulb sways lazily on a single cord, its motion dictated by some unseen force. Each swing creates grotesque shadows that slither along the walls, twisting and distorting as though alive. You blink hard, once, twice, trying to will your vision to cooperate. Shapes slowly materialize: the outline of a metal table, its surface pitted and tarnished
The jagged cracks in the concrete floor that look like scars on an ancient, battered face. The air is thick with the musty scent of neglect. Dampness clings to every surface, mingling with the sharp tang of rust and a faint, chemical odor that prickles uncomfortably at the back of your throat. Each breath feels intrusive, as though inhaling the very essence of the room itselfits decay, its despair. Somewhere to your left, a steady drip echoes faintly, water leaking from a pipe you cannot see. The sound is maddeningly repetitive, each drop splashing against a shallow puddle that amplifies the stillness of the space around you. You instinctively swallow, but your throat is dry and scratchy, and the motion sends a jolt of discomfort radiating through your neck.
Paying note, the silence is oppressive, but it is not absolute. Theres a faint hum, a low electrical buzz that seems to emanate from the flickering bulb above. Beneath it, you hear the faintest creak of something far away, like the groan of an ancient hinge or the shift of a door. The sound plants a seed of unease that quickly takes root, growing into something that coils tightly in the pit of your stomach. You test the ropes binding your wrists, your muscles straining against the restraint. The coarse fibers bite into your skin, unyielding and unforgiving. Frustration bubbles to the surface, mingling with the prickling fear that rises like a slow tide. Your gaze darts around the room, absorbing every grimy detail. The walls are bare, their peeling paint revealing layers of dull gray concrete beneath. Here and there, rusted chains hang limply from anchors bolted into the wall, their purpose as obvious as it is unsettling. The table in front of you bears dark, aged stains; brownish-red smudges that tug at your memory with unwelcome possibilities. On its surface lies a smattering of objects: tools, perhaps, though their exact nature remains shrouded in shadow. The ambiguity is almost worse than knowing.
As your senses sharpen, so too does the dread that settles over you, a tangible weight pressing down on your chest. The room is not merely a place it is a statement, a declaration of purpose. This space has been designed for discomfort, for intimidation, for submission. You are not here by chance. The thought churns in your mind, splintering into fragments of questions that offer no answers. A sound cuts through the oppressive silence, sharp and sudden: footsteps. They are deliberate and unhurried, the rhythmic clack of hard soles against concrete. Your heart lurches painfully in your chest, your pulse accelerating until it feels as though it might leap out of your throat. The footsteps grow louder, each step closer, more defined. The slow scrape of a bolt being drawn back sends a chill rippling down your spine, and then you hear itthe heavy groan of a door swinging open. A dim line of light slices into the room, widening as the door opens further to reveal Ritsuka(Kitsune) and Lorenzo to one another - sharing a similar fate. A shadow crosses into the space. And then theres a voice. Low, calm, and edged with a quiet authority that sends a shiver through you. It speaks your name, and in that moment, the crushing reality of your situation comes into sharp focus. The silence that follows is deafening, a void filled only by the thundering of your heartbeat. Whatever comes next, you know it will not be merciful.
Lorenzo stirs with a low breath, the pain flaring at the base of his skull like old fire rekindled. He doesnt cry out. Hes felt worse. Much worse. His head rolls forward, chin brushing his chest, sweat mixing with dust. The cold bites, but it's not the first time the colds tried to bury him.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head.
The flickering light casts his face in harsh shadow, accentuating the ink coiled across his throat, the hollows of cheekbones that shouldnt look so sharp on a man who should still look thirty. His blue eyes narrow - dry, bloodshot, but calculating.
He doesnt scream. He doesnt plead. He listens.
To the drip. To the hum. To the footsteps. Then, to the voice.
His wrists strain slightly, rope biting flesh. He huffs through his nose, not a laugh - but close. "If you meant to kill me," he rasps, voice rough as cracked stone, "you wouldnt have gone through all this trouble."
A glance toward the Ritsuka. A flicker of something like camaraderie. Then back to the door.
"You want something. Always do."
He smiles - tight-lipped, teeth hidden. Tired. Wary. But not broken.
"Ask your question. Lets begin the dance."
Alas, as it ever does with being knocked out, one might return from their shift, and the fury that builds within for the sheer audacity to even attempt this to her. Someone is going to suffer later, and then watched... perhaps seduced and then killed, only leaving the singular blossom of a red camellia behind. But for the moment, there was no time for as much. Ritsuka moves her head, angling it, testing if she has been naturalized or not, while her body tries to shift, trying to get that little button pressed with the little push and press of her body that would, as ever, be the signal for her faithful guardians.
Where Lorenzo speaks out and openly, she does not.
The first thing visible about the man is his shoes. They're nice. VERY nice. Glossy dark bornw, not quite black, they appear hard-soled but made from exquisite leather. That click that's echoed down the hall and as the pairs of eyes from Ritsuka and Lorenzo take in their presumed attacker (or at least their captor) they'll note that the rest of him seems to match that footwear. Well-tailored slacks and a tucked-in shirt. A blazer and a gold watch. He doesn't fit the surroundings of this room at all. Far from it, he seems to eye the surroundings the pair find themselves in with his own sense of distaste. If they feel affront for having to be here, he feels affront for having to be here because of them. "Ahh yes. We'll get to that in a moment, do not fret do not fret." His tone is Italian, not quite the stereotypical Guido accent of Hollywood but somethign a little more fluid, a little more natural. He moves to stand across the other side of the table, and with a snap of his fingers two more men follow him in. They're dressed like the hired muscle they are, tank tops and cheap sports coats over those; slacks from men's warehouse and cheap bracelets. They grab Lorenzo and Ritsuka's hands, shifting them from behind to in front, tying that thick bullrope to rings bolted to the table in front of them. "Please, please. Forgive me. I must request that you be patient just a moment or two longer, gratzi." And then those two men are slipping out, and they can be heard not walking but RUNNING down the hall, the bootfalls of their strides quickly fading.
Lorenzo groans softly as his wrists are pulled forward and tied, the ache of it flaring fresh against old nerve endings. He doesnt struggle - not yet. He merely exhales, long and slow, letting the pain pass like weather.
His head lolls to the side, damp hair falling across his forehead as he glances at Ritsuka beside him. Even bound, even in filth, she looks like something divine misplaced in a gutter. He offers her the ghost of a smirk, dry and dark. "You know, bella, this is usually where I say something clever... but Im running a little low on charm and -fluids- this afternoon."
He rolls his shoulders with a wince, feigning nonchalance, though every movement reminds him hes weaker than he should be. Still, his voice holds that Italian lilt - bored, amused, and just slightly unhinged. "Rope, rust, musty lighting... I give it a five for creativity. Ive woken up in worse." A pause. "Though not often."
As the suited man retreats and his lackeys run like hell, Lorenzo's eyes narrow. In Italian, soft enough for her alone: "Non un soldato. un burocrate travestito. E i codardi fuggono sempre prima del fumo."
("Hes no soldier. Hes a bureaucrat in disguise. And cowards always run before the fire.")
Blue eyes glance over the italian man as if he was an object to be examined, not a person, like someone may look at something distasteful in the zoo, and her head only slowly turns to look at Lorenzo. "How long do you think he will manage before he screams?" There is, now, naturally two things Ritsuka does, as she rolls her eyes. First, she begins to ambient feed, why waste a single time on this man when she may as well just try to turn him into living food as he is - he hardly looks more powerful than she, not feeling the tug at her life that she would with someone who was stronger, and with only her hands bound, she makes very much the attempt to shift. She may not be able to remove her hands, the palm making it more difficult, but paws are different, and much easier to slide out of things with. May as well do it the bloody way and nibble as much as sanctuary is going to allow her to, compensate for a temporary domestic pet lost - and to attempt make do to why she was feared.
Ritsuka seems to be unable to shift alas.
They wait ... and they wait. The minutes pass and the time crawls by and this pompous, over-dressed man just sits there as patient as the day is long. Then ... the sound of boots can be heard coming back through the hallway beyond the sight of Lorenzo and Ritsuka. Then one of those brutes is coming back into the room .... with a glass of wine?! This man takes the glass and brings it up to his face, olive-skinned and smoothly shaven. He swirls it about under his nose, taking the time to take in the scent of the drink before bringing it to his lips. "Ahh, this is better, no?" His smile is cheesy, never reaching eyes that are a little obscured by the dimmer lighting here. "So. I am waiting for the calls for a simple ransom. An exhange of a service, for a favor, for a debt .. you know how these things balance one another out. There is no need for the questions, or the pain. Just ... tell me something worth letting you go and you can get up now." Another slow drink of his wine, eyes closing in silent enjoyment. This prick really made them wait what seemed an eternity so he could enjoy a glass of wine? Yes. Yes he diod.
Lorenzo watches the man swirl his wine with a look that falls somewhere between amused and impressed - if impressed meant -mildly revolted-. Bound and aching, pale from hunger, he still manages to look like he owns the room with nothing but a slow blink and a cock of the brow.
"Now -thats- commitment," he drawls, voice rough but laced with velvet sarcasm. "Make a man bleed, chain him to a table, and then keep him waiting just so you can pair the moment with a Merlot." He clicks his tongue. "Classy."
He shifts slightly, jaw tightening against the cold and the tension in his limbs. Every movement reminds him of whats been taken - his strength, his edge. But not his mouth.
He turns to the Ritsuka beside him, lips quirking. "Im flattered, -strega-, really," he murmurs in Italian, voice dipped in charm and subtle challenge. "But if youre going to feed, at least buy me dinner first."
Back to their captor, his tone smooths into something honeyed. "Tell you something worth letting me go?" He leans towards his captor. "Fine. Heres one: the last man who tried this with me - he drank wine too."
Lorenzo grins.
"Hes still bleeding." All bluster, all hot air, all a game of words, but the bravado is cute, no? Maybe?
Suddenly, Ritsuka bursts into cheery laughter and the grin she settles on is quite dazzling, her head tilts as much as she can as her eyes draw to her and Lorenzo's captor, only for her expression to shift to something condescending and she glances over to Lorenzo instead, evidently opting to ignore the captor. "What is your name? Seems someone over there feels you are important enough to be captured. Convince me." She demands of Lorenzo, tilting her head a little bit to the side to let some of the strands of her hair flow to the side, yes there was nothing more but a pesky strand pocking at her eyelid. Annoying! It is the worst! Cruelty!
Well, there's no chance the man has missed the sarcasm offered by Lorenzo, but the only acknowledgement it receives for the time being is a quiet lift of that glass as if in toast to the man before he finishes off the sample and extends his arm so that his brute can take the empty glass and then he too is off out the still-open door again, boots walking away down that unseen hall at a more medium pace until they once again seem to disappear out of hearing range.
The man continues to regard them, and he doesn't even seem to take any offense at the way Ritsuka seems to ignore his presence. Neither of them can really feel the nature of that psychological feeding that takes place, so there's nothing in that for the man who sits here ... but the mention of money does still somwhat linger in the air. What was the word the man used? Ahh, ransom. Yes, the ransom. But for whom? The woman he has here perhaps, but could it be Lorenzo was just grabbed because he was there? The woman's question lingers around the Italian soldier too, now as she demands his bonafides as they say.
The sound of something cutting softly through the air can be heard, a small quiet whistle.
Lorenzo shifts in his seat, the ropes groaning along with him. He lifts his head slowly, blue eyes catching the flicker of dim light as they slide toward the Ritsuka. Her laughter still lingers like perfume - sweet, sharp, and entirely dangerous.
"My name?" he echoes, as if tasting the question. A smirk tugs at his lips, tired but wicked. "It changes with the century, bella. Ive had more names than lovers... and fewer regrets than both."
He leans slightly forward, despite the pull in his shoulders, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "In Naples they called me the Wind. In New Orleans? A ghost with good manners." A pause. "Once, a priest called me a curse wrapped in charm. But he was drunk, so who's to say?"
As the captor's boots fade again, Lorenzo lets his head loll lazily to the side, watching her through the veil of his lashes.
"Convince you?" he murmurs. "I could lie - say Im a prince, a prophet, a poet undone. Or maybe Im just a bartender with good cheekbones and a habit of being in the wrong place when the night gets hungry."
His smirk widens into a grin. "Pick whichever version suits your appetite, gattina. I wear them all well."
"Your name shall then be Zero. Because that sounds like you are trying to waste my time to investigate later. I won't." Ritsuka decides, the given chance drawing to her immediate disinterest, though one could always argue it is to not give a single thing to mister captor here, but surely he would not have been so foolish as to capture her without an intend or knowing. There is the most quiet of a soft cut, and she does decide to just speak up, continue on a conversation, perhaps one that is entirely meaningless. "I have to say, this last harvest of Black Camellias has been very beautiful. Heard it drove some insane, getting them to do as they should: On their knees worshiping their masters."
Lorenzo chuckles - dry, cracked, like a record left too long in the sun. His head tips back against the chair, eyes rolling lazily toward the ceiling as if the whole place is one long, bad joke and hes already heard the punchline.
"Zero," he repeats, voice honeyed with sarcasm. "Ah, bellissimo. Finally - something that matches my bank account and patience."
He glances at her sideways, the flicker of a grin not quite reaching the ache behind his eyes. "Call me what you like, strega. Pet names dont change the flavor of the poison, and you don't strike me as the type who needs convincing."
At the mention of Black Camellias, he hums low in his throat, feigning thought. "Flowers that bloom in madness are the prettiest, arent they? Worship's a fickle game, though. Today on their knees, tomorrow with daggers. People are funny like that."
He shifts again, wincing slightly, but never losing that crooked grin. "But I wouldnt worry. If I was meant for worship, someone lost the manual." A pause. "Or maybe I burned it."
Then, in lilting Italian, low and offhanded: "Tutti fingono dessere dei finche non sentono il fuoco."
("Everyone pretends to be a god until they feel the fire.")
As the words come from Ritsuka, another of those soft whistling sounds comes. Then things begin to happen in a whirlwind! A dark-clad form comes dashing in from the hallways in the blink of an eye - a flash of dulled metal .... and then the man's eyes blink once ... twice, in surprise. A moment of time suspends itself in the air ... and his head rolls forward to THUD onto the table in front of the two bound to the other side of it with a sickening, wet sound. Blood spurts up from where his head used to be attached to the body and still bound to the table, Ritsuka and Lorenzo will find themselves sprayed with all but a shower of hot speckled blood as it splatters across their faces. The figure standing there is garbed in something that blends the aesthetic of the classic ninja or shinobi with more modern tactical apparel. All blackened cloth, polymer plates in crucual places and soft-soled boots that make no sound to replace what might have once been tabi. He walks forward, something almost 'tech-ninja' in the mask that he wears and wipes the blade of his sword on the clothing of the now dead man's jacket once the body has slumped over. Then he steps forward to remove the ties that hold only someone captive, here. They don't work for Lorenzo unfortunately ... but where one strikes ... a dozen strike. If there any left alive in whatever this small little compound is - the bulk of them are probably standing in this room now. Freeing the beautiful woman, the masked soldier gives a sharp bow of respect, before straightening and awaiting orders. Now that she's free - they know who to look to for taking charge.
As the words come from Ritsuka, another of those soft whistling sounds comes. Then things begin to happen in a whirlwind! A dark-clad form comes dashing in from the hallways in the blink of an eye - a flash of dulled metal .... and then the man's eyes blink once ... twice, in surprise. A moment of time suspends itself in the air ... and his head rolls forward to THUD onto the table in front of the two bound to the other side of it with a sickening, wet sound. Blood spurts up from where his head used to be attached to the body and still bound to the table, Ritsuka and Lorenzo will find themselves sprayed with all but a shower of hot speckled blood as it splatters across their faces. The figure standing there is garbed in something that blends the aesthetic of the classic ninja or shinobi with more modern tactical apparel. All blackened cloth, polymer plates in crucual places and soft-soled boots that make no sound to replace what might have once been tabi. He walks forward, something almost 'tech-ninja' in the mask that he wears and wipes the blade of his sword on the clothing of the now dead man's jacket once the body has slumped over. Then he steps forward to remove the ties that hold only Ritsuka captive, here. They don't work for Lorenzo unfortunately ... but where one strikes ... a dozen strike. If there any left alive in whatever this small little compound is - the bulk of them are probably standing in this room now. Freeing the beautiful woman, the masked soldier gives a sharp bow of respect, before straightening and awaiting orders. Now that she's free - they know who to look to for taking charge.
OOC: Thank you for participating! While Ritsuka could take advantage here, mostly I just wanted to kind of paint the imperious picture for her character a bit since she had the resources to save the day as it were on this one! Please feel free to continue until you're ready to head down i will offer what i can, and if you need a teleport ask and you shall receive!
Blood spatters warm across Lorenzo's cheek, slick against the fading pallor of his skin. His head tilts, unflinching, as the man's body slumps forward and the room tilts from captivity to carnage.
"Mamma mia," he drawls, blinking once, slowly. "And here I was, worried this was gonna get boring."
The blade flash, the whir of precision, the masked soldiers that bloom from the shadows like ghosts from a graveyard - all of it earns only a wry curl of his lips. He doesn't flinch. Doesnt beg. Just watches.
When Ritsuka is freed and he's left tied to his metal throne, he lifts his gaze to her, splattered in red and radiant in gold.
"Looks like the garden pruned itself," he says with a smirk, voice raspy but still sharp. "Guess that makes you the rose worth bleeding for, huh?"
He doesn't plead for release. Doesn't ask for help.
Instead, casually: "If you're taking votes, I'd suggest we not stay for dessert. I'm a fan of dramatic exits."
A beat.
In Italian, light as silk: "Se devi lasciarmi qui, almeno lascia una finestra aperta. Mi piacciono le fughe poetiche."
Blood spatters warm across Lorenzo's cheek, slick against the fading pallor of his skin. His head tilts, unflinching, as the man's body slumps forward and the room tilts from captivity to carnage.
"Mamma mia," he drawls, blinking once, slowly. "And here I was, worried this was gonna get boring."
The blade flash, the whir of precision, the masked soldiers that bloom from the shadows like ghosts from a graveyard - all of it earns only a wry curl of his lips. He doesn't flinch. Doesnt beg. Just watches.
When Ritsuka is freed and he's left tied to his metal throne, he lifts his gaze to her, splattered in red and radiant in gold.
"Looks like the garden pruned itself," he says with a smirk, voice raspy but still sharp. "Guess that makes you the rose worth bleeding for, huh?"
He doesn't plead for release. Doesn't ask for help.
Instead, casually: "If you're taking votes, I'd suggest we not stay for dessert. I'm a fan of dramatic exits."
A beat.
In Italian, light as silk: "Se devi lasciarmi qui, almeno lascia una finestra aperta. Mi piacciono le fughe poetiche."
("If youre going to leave me here, at least leave a window open. I like my escapes poetic.")
And still, he grins. (fixed)
A smile widens over Ritsuka's lips when the blood is splayed, and the little business turns a beautiful shade of red. Her expensive dress, worth three thousand dollars is going to need a thorough cleaning, but there is no thought to why she even decided to wear that out of all the choices she had today. No hands move to touch over her wrists, what reddening there was, would heal rather sooner than later and this was quiet mild "Is everyone handled? If there is survivors capture them, I will have a conversation with them." Or in what it actually means: torture and feed. There, she then takes a deep breathe in, chest rising a little bit before she moves a hand onto her cleavage, right in the middle to pull up a hidden sheath, drawing a wakizashi, she moves aroun d and just cuts Lorenzo's bindings, priest them open, frees him, however that will look like.
She shares no other word with Lorenzo, and returns the smaller blade back to its sheath, and begins to make her way out. Why linger? There was a kid she was going to feed on, but that is not a priority. Best to find out who the idiots were, search through the place, perhaps this is where she had been captured once before long ago? A pizza place, weird animatronics below, some weird italian sounds, well, who knows?
At the question, that masked shinobi nods his head once sharply and then he's moving like the namesake he's dressed like. Gone like the wind, he's out into the rest of the place. Lorenzo and Ritsuka will find themselves in one of the small abandoned office buildings that dot the outer edges of the town; abandoned development projects and memories of things the town would soon leave best forgotten.
As the ropes fall slack and his wrists are freed, Lorenzo doesn't move right away. He just sits there, flexing his fingers with a faint hiss between his teeth, watching Ritsuka in crimson silk glide away like a blade sheathed in velvet.
"Grazie," he murmurs absently, though his tone suggests hes unsure whether he's thanking her or the universe for its ever-unpredictable chaos.
Rising slowly, he rolls his shoulders, grimacing as tendons protest and the ache of captivity sets in deep. He eyes the blood-soaked table with a sigh, then the headless corpse with a grim little smile. "Next time," he mutters, "I'm taking the alley behind the bar."
He watches her go, that delicate silhouette framed in shadow and the slow fade of adrenaline. No apology. No explanation. Just blood and silk and command.
Perfect.
To her back, he calls with that lazy charm, "If you find a pizza joint with haunted puppets and a jukebox that plays in Latin, save me a slice."
Then, softer, a whisper to no one in particular, "Not all monsters leave claw marks. Some just walk out like they own the night."
And with that, he followshands bloodied, grin crooked, heart still beating... for now.
SRKah says "Alright. Getting this guy teleported! "
On a darker note, Ritsuka's predatory nature finds her in a grim scenario far from the club, as she leads a child into the forest, hinting at her malicious intentions disguised under the veil of Sanctuary's limitations. This distasteful act is a stark contrast to the elegance Ritsuka later displays when cornered alongside Lorenzo, their fates intertwined by an unexpected captivity. A swift and bloody rescue mission unfolds, revealing Ritsuka's powerful connections that command ninja-like precision and loyalty, effortlessly deciding the fate of their captors. In these chaotic and gruesome moments of liberation, both Lorenzo and Ritsuka maintain an eerie composure, their interactions laced with a mutual understanding of their worlds' dark corners, suggesting that their encounter—strange, violent, yet strangely respectful—might just be the beginning of a compelling narrative.
(Lorenzo's odd encounter(SRKah):SRKah)
[Mon Mar 24 2025]
At the Front Bar and Lounge of The Succubus Club
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is afternoon, about 47F(8C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been abducted and is being held hostage by a supernatural criminal out to trade them for something or just use them as a shield against the factions. Your target must attempt to find a way to escape, or simply survive until they can be rescued by their allies.
)
Lorenzo moves behind the bar like he was born to it - measured, fluid, never rushed. The navy-striped dress shirt hugs a form carved by time and obsession, sleeves rolled just high enough to display veins like river maps and the inked echoes of history and hell. The silver and gold at his wrist catches the LED glow, gleaming as his hands -strong, clean, confident- pour bourbon with care, flick lime into a vodka tonic, and slide a glass across the smoked glass surface with practiced ease.
He doesnt speak often, but when he does, his voice is warm and deliberate. Names are remembered. Drinks come without asking, for those whove earned that familiarity.
Patrons lean in, sometimes just to watch - the tattoos, the gleam in those bright blue eyes, the scent of vanilla, whiskey, and something else something harder to name.
He offers a nod here, a faint smirk there. A small exchange. A shared silence. A flicker of something deeper.
This isn't just bartending. Its presence.
Lorenzo tends the Succubus like a man tending a flame - quiet, precise, and not entirely harmless all the vibe, thrum, beat of Midnight Departure: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQXs9HWS9NE&list=PLOraLXYTXqXtWcKDflA8y7eCiVz8ByZ0z&index=17
Lorenzo moves behind the bar like he was born to it - measured, fluid, never rushed. The navy-striped dress shirt hugs a form carved by time and obsession, sleeves rolled just high enough to display veins like river maps and the inked echoes of history and hell. The silver and gold at his wrist catches the LED glow, gleaming as his hands -strong, clean, confident- pour bourbon with care, flick lime into a vodka tonic, and slide a glass across the smoked glass surface with practiced ease.
He doesnt speak often, but when he does, his voice is warm and deliberate. Names are remembered. Drinks come without asking, for those whove earned that familiarity.
Patrons lean in, sometimes just to watch - the tattoos, the gleam in those bright blue eyes, the scent of vanilla, whiskey, and something else something harder to name.
He offers a nod here, a faint smirk there. A small exchange. A shared silence. A flicker of something deeper.
This isn't just bartending. Its presence.
Lorenzo tends the Succubus like a man tending a flame - quiet, precise, and not entirely harmless all the vibe, thrum, beat of Midnight Departure: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQXs9HWS9NE&list=PLOraLXYTXqXtWcKDflA8y7eCiVz8ByZ0z&index=17 (repost)
Frankly, Ritsuka(Kitsune) was not doing anything that could be considered innocent, dragging a child - a boy, with teeth around his poor, small hand out to the forest. She could not kill him, of course not. Sanctuary stops as much, but the crying, the sheer and pure terror, the pain and suffering... how could a monster find anything as raw as this? Of course this was close near the western end of the city, where the downtrodden live, from near where Harriet's mansion stands and the succubus club lies. Just a single quick sweep in, a nibble and then the dragging out.
Perhaps she will need to cover this up more, but taking his memories later will be simple, and with the sheer incompetence the city is displaying with repairing and fixing anything in the wake of her ascension, well, who is going to cause her any trouble for it? if there was a time for it, it would be now.
This afternoon, things are rolling along on the same winding cylce that perpetuates as it always does here in the small town of Haven. As the wheel turns, patterns come and go, and come again. Lorenzo is engaged in the art of his own craft, slipping and gliding between customers and patrons with an ease that comes with experience and a natural charisma and talent for the job. Somewhere there in the club and amongst the crowd, Ritsuka(Kitsune) focuses on the prey that they've to call for, stalking and luring as they do. She'll almost make it out the door of course, but then there's a sudden commotion, and voices are rising all around! What's happening, it doesn't seem clear but all of the sudden the pair of Lorenzo and Ritsuka(Kitsune) will suddenly find a sharp Pain blossoming in the back of their skulls before everything goes dark.
Your mind stirs sluggishly, as though clawing its way back from the depths of a suffocating void. Theres no gentle return to wakefulness, no easing into the comfort of soft light or warmth. Instead, a heavy throb pounds relentlessly behind your temples, each pulse driving home the disorientation that clouds your thoughts. Your skull feels thick, as if packed with wool, and the ache is a cruel percussion that drowns out your first attempts to piece together how you got here, or even where here is. First thing you notice is the cold. It seeps into your body like an unwelcome guest, wrapping around you and burrowing into your bones. You feel it most sharply in your wrists, which are raw and stinging from the unforgiving scrape of coarse rope binding them together. It bites into the delicate skin, tight enough to hinder circulation, but not tight enough to numb you entirely to its presence. Your body is stiff, awkwardly angled in a metal chair that groans with protest as you shift slightly. The surface beneath you is hard and unyielding, and a layer of grime clings to your skin where it meets the chair, a sticky, unpleasant reminder of how long youve been here; however long that might be.
When you finally force your eyes to crack open, the world is an impenetrable blur. Darkness envelops the room, thick and heavy, but not complete. A faint, erratic light flickers above you, casting the space in fleeting moments of dim illumination before plunging it back into shadow. The bulb sways lazily on a single cord, its motion dictated by some unseen force. Each swing creates grotesque shadows that slither along the walls, twisting and distorting as though alive. You blink hard, once, twice, trying to will your vision to cooperate. Shapes slowly materialize: the outline of a metal table, its surface pitted and tarnished
The jagged cracks in the concrete floor that look like scars on an ancient, battered face. The air is thick with the musty scent of neglect. Dampness clings to every surface, mingling with the sharp tang of rust and a faint, chemical odor that prickles uncomfortably at the back of your throat. Each breath feels intrusive, as though inhaling the very essence of the room itselfits decay, its despair. Somewhere to your left, a steady drip echoes faintly, water leaking from a pipe you cannot see. The sound is maddeningly repetitive, each drop splashing against a shallow puddle that amplifies the stillness of the space around you. You instinctively swallow, but your throat is dry and scratchy, and the motion sends a jolt of discomfort radiating through your neck.
Paying note, the silence is oppressive, but it is not absolute. Theres a faint hum, a low electrical buzz that seems to emanate from the flickering bulb above. Beneath it, you hear the faintest creak of something far away, like the groan of an ancient hinge or the shift of a door. The sound plants a seed of unease that quickly takes root, growing into something that coils tightly in the pit of your stomach. You test the ropes binding your wrists, your muscles straining against the restraint. The coarse fibers bite into your skin, unyielding and unforgiving. Frustration bubbles to the surface, mingling with the prickling fear that rises like a slow tide. Your gaze darts around the room, absorbing every grimy detail. The walls are bare, their peeling paint revealing layers of dull gray concrete beneath. Here and there, rusted chains hang limply from anchors bolted into the wall, their purpose as obvious as it is unsettling. The table in front of you bears dark, aged stains; brownish-red smudges that tug at your memory with unwelcome possibilities. On its surface lies a smattering of objects: tools, perhaps, though their exact nature remains shrouded in shadow. The ambiguity is almost worse than knowing.
As your senses sharpen, so too does the dread that settles over you, a tangible weight pressing down on your chest. The room is not merely a place it is a statement, a declaration of purpose. This space has been designed for discomfort, for intimidation, for submission. You are not here by chance. The thought churns in your mind, splintering into fragments of questions that offer no answers. A sound cuts through the oppressive silence, sharp and sudden: footsteps. They are deliberate and unhurried, the rhythmic clack of hard soles against concrete. Your heart lurches painfully in your chest, your pulse accelerating until it feels as though it might leap out of your throat. The footsteps grow louder, each step closer, more defined. The slow scrape of a bolt being drawn back sends a chill rippling down your spine, and then you hear itthe heavy groan of a door swinging open. A dim line of light slices into the room, widening as the door opens further to reveal Ritsuka(Kitsune) and Lorenzo to one another - sharing a similar fate. A shadow crosses into the space. And then theres a voice. Low, calm, and edged with a quiet authority that sends a shiver through you. It speaks your name, and in that moment, the crushing reality of your situation comes into sharp focus. The silence that follows is deafening, a void filled only by the thundering of your heartbeat. Whatever comes next, you know it will not be merciful.
Lorenzo stirs with a low breath, the pain flaring at the base of his skull like old fire rekindled. He doesnt cry out. Hes felt worse. Much worse. His head rolls forward, chin brushing his chest, sweat mixing with dust. The cold bites, but it's not the first time the colds tried to bury him.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head.
The flickering light casts his face in harsh shadow, accentuating the ink coiled across his throat, the hollows of cheekbones that shouldnt look so sharp on a man who should still look thirty. His blue eyes narrow - dry, bloodshot, but calculating.
He doesnt scream. He doesnt plead. He listens.
To the drip. To the hum. To the footsteps. Then, to the voice.
His wrists strain slightly, rope biting flesh. He huffs through his nose, not a laugh - but close. "If you meant to kill me," he rasps, voice rough as cracked stone, "you wouldnt have gone through all this trouble."
A glance toward the Ritsuka. A flicker of something like camaraderie. Then back to the door.
"You want something. Always do."
He smiles - tight-lipped, teeth hidden. Tired. Wary. But not broken.
"Ask your question. Lets begin the dance."
Alas, as it ever does with being knocked out, one might return from their shift, and the fury that builds within for the sheer audacity to even attempt this to her. Someone is going to suffer later, and then watched... perhaps seduced and then killed, only leaving the singular blossom of a red camellia behind. But for the moment, there was no time for as much. Ritsuka moves her head, angling it, testing if she has been naturalized or not, while her body tries to shift, trying to get that little button pressed with the little push and press of her body that would, as ever, be the signal for her faithful guardians.
Where Lorenzo speaks out and openly, she does not.
The first thing visible about the man is his shoes. They're nice. VERY nice. Glossy dark bornw, not quite black, they appear hard-soled but made from exquisite leather. That click that's echoed down the hall and as the pairs of eyes from Ritsuka and Lorenzo take in their presumed attacker (or at least their captor) they'll note that the rest of him seems to match that footwear. Well-tailored slacks and a tucked-in shirt. A blazer and a gold watch. He doesn't fit the surroundings of this room at all. Far from it, he seems to eye the surroundings the pair find themselves in with his own sense of distaste. If they feel affront for having to be here, he feels affront for having to be here because of them. "Ahh yes. We'll get to that in a moment, do not fret do not fret." His tone is Italian, not quite the stereotypical Guido accent of Hollywood but somethign a little more fluid, a little more natural. He moves to stand across the other side of the table, and with a snap of his fingers two more men follow him in. They're dressed like the hired muscle they are, tank tops and cheap sports coats over those; slacks from men's warehouse and cheap bracelets. They grab Lorenzo and Ritsuka's hands, shifting them from behind to in front, tying that thick bullrope to rings bolted to the table in front of them. "Please, please. Forgive me. I must request that you be patient just a moment or two longer, gratzi." And then those two men are slipping out, and they can be heard not walking but RUNNING down the hall, the bootfalls of their strides quickly fading.
Lorenzo groans softly as his wrists are pulled forward and tied, the ache of it flaring fresh against old nerve endings. He doesnt struggle - not yet. He merely exhales, long and slow, letting the pain pass like weather.
His head lolls to the side, damp hair falling across his forehead as he glances at Ritsuka beside him. Even bound, even in filth, she looks like something divine misplaced in a gutter. He offers her the ghost of a smirk, dry and dark. "You know, bella, this is usually where I say something clever... but Im running a little low on charm and -fluids- this afternoon."
He rolls his shoulders with a wince, feigning nonchalance, though every movement reminds him hes weaker than he should be. Still, his voice holds that Italian lilt - bored, amused, and just slightly unhinged. "Rope, rust, musty lighting... I give it a five for creativity. Ive woken up in worse." A pause. "Though not often."
As the suited man retreats and his lackeys run like hell, Lorenzo's eyes narrow. In Italian, soft enough for her alone: "Non un soldato. un burocrate travestito. E i codardi fuggono sempre prima del fumo."
("Hes no soldier. Hes a bureaucrat in disguise. And cowards always run before the fire.")
Blue eyes glance over the italian man as if he was an object to be examined, not a person, like someone may look at something distasteful in the zoo, and her head only slowly turns to look at Lorenzo. "How long do you think he will manage before he screams?" There is, now, naturally two things Ritsuka does, as she rolls her eyes. First, she begins to ambient feed, why waste a single time on this man when she may as well just try to turn him into living food as he is - he hardly looks more powerful than she, not feeling the tug at her life that she would with someone who was stronger, and with only her hands bound, she makes very much the attempt to shift. She may not be able to remove her hands, the palm making it more difficult, but paws are different, and much easier to slide out of things with. May as well do it the bloody way and nibble as much as sanctuary is going to allow her to, compensate for a temporary domestic pet lost - and to attempt make do to why she was feared.
Ritsuka seems to be unable to shift alas.
They wait ... and they wait. The minutes pass and the time crawls by and this pompous, over-dressed man just sits there as patient as the day is long. Then ... the sound of boots can be heard coming back through the hallway beyond the sight of Lorenzo and Ritsuka. Then one of those brutes is coming back into the room .... with a glass of wine?! This man takes the glass and brings it up to his face, olive-skinned and smoothly shaven. He swirls it about under his nose, taking the time to take in the scent of the drink before bringing it to his lips. "Ahh, this is better, no?" His smile is cheesy, never reaching eyes that are a little obscured by the dimmer lighting here. "So. I am waiting for the calls for a simple ransom. An exhange of a service, for a favor, for a debt .. you know how these things balance one another out. There is no need for the questions, or the pain. Just ... tell me something worth letting you go and you can get up now." Another slow drink of his wine, eyes closing in silent enjoyment. This prick really made them wait what seemed an eternity so he could enjoy a glass of wine? Yes. Yes he diod.
Lorenzo watches the man swirl his wine with a look that falls somewhere between amused and impressed - if impressed meant -mildly revolted-. Bound and aching, pale from hunger, he still manages to look like he owns the room with nothing but a slow blink and a cock of the brow.
"Now -thats- commitment," he drawls, voice rough but laced with velvet sarcasm. "Make a man bleed, chain him to a table, and then keep him waiting just so you can pair the moment with a Merlot." He clicks his tongue. "Classy."
He shifts slightly, jaw tightening against the cold and the tension in his limbs. Every movement reminds him of whats been taken - his strength, his edge. But not his mouth.
He turns to the Ritsuka beside him, lips quirking. "Im flattered, -strega-, really," he murmurs in Italian, voice dipped in charm and subtle challenge. "But if youre going to feed, at least buy me dinner first."
Back to their captor, his tone smooths into something honeyed. "Tell you something worth letting me go?" He leans towards his captor. "Fine. Heres one: the last man who tried this with me - he drank wine too."
Lorenzo grins.
"Hes still bleeding." All bluster, all hot air, all a game of words, but the bravado is cute, no? Maybe?
Suddenly, Ritsuka bursts into cheery laughter and the grin she settles on is quite dazzling, her head tilts as much as she can as her eyes draw to her and Lorenzo's captor, only for her expression to shift to something condescending and she glances over to Lorenzo instead, evidently opting to ignore the captor. "What is your name? Seems someone over there feels you are important enough to be captured. Convince me." She demands of Lorenzo, tilting her head a little bit to the side to let some of the strands of her hair flow to the side, yes there was nothing more but a pesky strand pocking at her eyelid. Annoying! It is the worst! Cruelty!
Well, there's no chance the man has missed the sarcasm offered by Lorenzo, but the only acknowledgement it receives for the time being is a quiet lift of that glass as if in toast to the man before he finishes off the sample and extends his arm so that his brute can take the empty glass and then he too is off out the still-open door again, boots walking away down that unseen hall at a more medium pace until they once again seem to disappear out of hearing range.
The man continues to regard them, and he doesn't even seem to take any offense at the way Ritsuka seems to ignore his presence. Neither of them can really feel the nature of that psychological feeding that takes place, so there's nothing in that for the man who sits here ... but the mention of money does still somwhat linger in the air. What was the word the man used? Ahh, ransom. Yes, the ransom. But for whom? The woman he has here perhaps, but could it be Lorenzo was just grabbed because he was there? The woman's question lingers around the Italian soldier too, now as she demands his bonafides as they say.
The sound of something cutting softly through the air can be heard, a small quiet whistle.
Lorenzo shifts in his seat, the ropes groaning along with him. He lifts his head slowly, blue eyes catching the flicker of dim light as they slide toward the Ritsuka. Her laughter still lingers like perfume - sweet, sharp, and entirely dangerous.
"My name?" he echoes, as if tasting the question. A smirk tugs at his lips, tired but wicked. "It changes with the century, bella. Ive had more names than lovers... and fewer regrets than both."
He leans slightly forward, despite the pull in his shoulders, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "In Naples they called me the Wind. In New Orleans? A ghost with good manners." A pause. "Once, a priest called me a curse wrapped in charm. But he was drunk, so who's to say?"
As the captor's boots fade again, Lorenzo lets his head loll lazily to the side, watching her through the veil of his lashes.
"Convince you?" he murmurs. "I could lie - say Im a prince, a prophet, a poet undone. Or maybe Im just a bartender with good cheekbones and a habit of being in the wrong place when the night gets hungry."
His smirk widens into a grin. "Pick whichever version suits your appetite, gattina. I wear them all well."
"Your name shall then be Zero. Because that sounds like you are trying to waste my time to investigate later. I won't." Ritsuka decides, the given chance drawing to her immediate disinterest, though one could always argue it is to not give a single thing to mister captor here, but surely he would not have been so foolish as to capture her without an intend or knowing. There is the most quiet of a soft cut, and she does decide to just speak up, continue on a conversation, perhaps one that is entirely meaningless. "I have to say, this last harvest of Black Camellias has been very beautiful. Heard it drove some insane, getting them to do as they should: On their knees worshiping their masters."
Lorenzo chuckles - dry, cracked, like a record left too long in the sun. His head tips back against the chair, eyes rolling lazily toward the ceiling as if the whole place is one long, bad joke and hes already heard the punchline.
"Zero," he repeats, voice honeyed with sarcasm. "Ah, bellissimo. Finally - something that matches my bank account and patience."
He glances at her sideways, the flicker of a grin not quite reaching the ache behind his eyes. "Call me what you like, strega. Pet names dont change the flavor of the poison, and you don't strike me as the type who needs convincing."
At the mention of Black Camellias, he hums low in his throat, feigning thought. "Flowers that bloom in madness are the prettiest, arent they? Worship's a fickle game, though. Today on their knees, tomorrow with daggers. People are funny like that."
He shifts again, wincing slightly, but never losing that crooked grin. "But I wouldnt worry. If I was meant for worship, someone lost the manual." A pause. "Or maybe I burned it."
Then, in lilting Italian, low and offhanded: "Tutti fingono dessere dei finche non sentono il fuoco."
("Everyone pretends to be a god until they feel the fire.")
As the words come from Ritsuka, another of those soft whistling sounds comes. Then things begin to happen in a whirlwind! A dark-clad form comes dashing in from the hallways in the blink of an eye - a flash of dulled metal .... and then the man's eyes blink once ... twice, in surprise. A moment of time suspends itself in the air ... and his head rolls forward to THUD onto the table in front of the two bound to the other side of it with a sickening, wet sound. Blood spurts up from where his head used to be attached to the body and still bound to the table, Ritsuka and Lorenzo will find themselves sprayed with all but a shower of hot speckled blood as it splatters across their faces. The figure standing there is garbed in something that blends the aesthetic of the classic ninja or shinobi with more modern tactical apparel. All blackened cloth, polymer plates in crucual places and soft-soled boots that make no sound to replace what might have once been tabi. He walks forward, something almost 'tech-ninja' in the mask that he wears and wipes the blade of his sword on the clothing of the now dead man's jacket once the body has slumped over. Then he steps forward to remove the ties that hold only someone captive, here. They don't work for Lorenzo unfortunately ... but where one strikes ... a dozen strike. If there any left alive in whatever this small little compound is - the bulk of them are probably standing in this room now. Freeing the beautiful woman, the masked soldier gives a sharp bow of respect, before straightening and awaiting orders. Now that she's free - they know who to look to for taking charge.
As the words come from Ritsuka, another of those soft whistling sounds comes. Then things begin to happen in a whirlwind! A dark-clad form comes dashing in from the hallways in the blink of an eye - a flash of dulled metal .... and then the man's eyes blink once ... twice, in surprise. A moment of time suspends itself in the air ... and his head rolls forward to THUD onto the table in front of the two bound to the other side of it with a sickening, wet sound. Blood spurts up from where his head used to be attached to the body and still bound to the table, Ritsuka and Lorenzo will find themselves sprayed with all but a shower of hot speckled blood as it splatters across their faces. The figure standing there is garbed in something that blends the aesthetic of the classic ninja or shinobi with more modern tactical apparel. All blackened cloth, polymer plates in crucual places and soft-soled boots that make no sound to replace what might have once been tabi. He walks forward, something almost 'tech-ninja' in the mask that he wears and wipes the blade of his sword on the clothing of the now dead man's jacket once the body has slumped over. Then he steps forward to remove the ties that hold only Ritsuka captive, here. They don't work for Lorenzo unfortunately ... but where one strikes ... a dozen strike. If there any left alive in whatever this small little compound is - the bulk of them are probably standing in this room now. Freeing the beautiful woman, the masked soldier gives a sharp bow of respect, before straightening and awaiting orders. Now that she's free - they know who to look to for taking charge.
OOC: Thank you for participating! While Ritsuka could take advantage here, mostly I just wanted to kind of paint the imperious picture for her character a bit since she had the resources to save the day as it were on this one! Please feel free to continue until you're ready to head down i will offer what i can, and if you need a teleport ask and you shall receive!
Blood spatters warm across Lorenzo's cheek, slick against the fading pallor of his skin. His head tilts, unflinching, as the man's body slumps forward and the room tilts from captivity to carnage.
"Mamma mia," he drawls, blinking once, slowly. "And here I was, worried this was gonna get boring."
The blade flash, the whir of precision, the masked soldiers that bloom from the shadows like ghosts from a graveyard - all of it earns only a wry curl of his lips. He doesn't flinch. Doesnt beg. Just watches.
When Ritsuka is freed and he's left tied to his metal throne, he lifts his gaze to her, splattered in red and radiant in gold.
"Looks like the garden pruned itself," he says with a smirk, voice raspy but still sharp. "Guess that makes you the rose worth bleeding for, huh?"
He doesn't plead for release. Doesn't ask for help.
Instead, casually: "If you're taking votes, I'd suggest we not stay for dessert. I'm a fan of dramatic exits."
A beat.
In Italian, light as silk: "Se devi lasciarmi qui, almeno lascia una finestra aperta. Mi piacciono le fughe poetiche."
Blood spatters warm across Lorenzo's cheek, slick against the fading pallor of his skin. His head tilts, unflinching, as the man's body slumps forward and the room tilts from captivity to carnage.
"Mamma mia," he drawls, blinking once, slowly. "And here I was, worried this was gonna get boring."
The blade flash, the whir of precision, the masked soldiers that bloom from the shadows like ghosts from a graveyard - all of it earns only a wry curl of his lips. He doesn't flinch. Doesnt beg. Just watches.
When Ritsuka is freed and he's left tied to his metal throne, he lifts his gaze to her, splattered in red and radiant in gold.
"Looks like the garden pruned itself," he says with a smirk, voice raspy but still sharp. "Guess that makes you the rose worth bleeding for, huh?"
He doesn't plead for release. Doesn't ask for help.
Instead, casually: "If you're taking votes, I'd suggest we not stay for dessert. I'm a fan of dramatic exits."
A beat.
In Italian, light as silk: "Se devi lasciarmi qui, almeno lascia una finestra aperta. Mi piacciono le fughe poetiche."
("If youre going to leave me here, at least leave a window open. I like my escapes poetic.")
And still, he grins. (fixed)
A smile widens over Ritsuka's lips when the blood is splayed, and the little business turns a beautiful shade of red. Her expensive dress, worth three thousand dollars is going to need a thorough cleaning, but there is no thought to why she even decided to wear that out of all the choices she had today. No hands move to touch over her wrists, what reddening there was, would heal rather sooner than later and this was quiet mild "Is everyone handled? If there is survivors capture them, I will have a conversation with them." Or in what it actually means: torture and feed. There, she then takes a deep breathe in, chest rising a little bit before she moves a hand onto her cleavage, right in the middle to pull up a hidden sheath, drawing a wakizashi, she moves aroun d and just cuts Lorenzo's bindings, priest them open, frees him, however that will look like.
She shares no other word with Lorenzo, and returns the smaller blade back to its sheath, and begins to make her way out. Why linger? There was a kid she was going to feed on, but that is not a priority. Best to find out who the idiots were, search through the place, perhaps this is where she had been captured once before long ago? A pizza place, weird animatronics below, some weird italian sounds, well, who knows?
At the question, that masked shinobi nods his head once sharply and then he's moving like the namesake he's dressed like. Gone like the wind, he's out into the rest of the place. Lorenzo and Ritsuka will find themselves in one of the small abandoned office buildings that dot the outer edges of the town; abandoned development projects and memories of things the town would soon leave best forgotten.
As the ropes fall slack and his wrists are freed, Lorenzo doesn't move right away. He just sits there, flexing his fingers with a faint hiss between his teeth, watching Ritsuka in crimson silk glide away like a blade sheathed in velvet.
"Grazie," he murmurs absently, though his tone suggests hes unsure whether he's thanking her or the universe for its ever-unpredictable chaos.
Rising slowly, he rolls his shoulders, grimacing as tendons protest and the ache of captivity sets in deep. He eyes the blood-soaked table with a sigh, then the headless corpse with a grim little smile. "Next time," he mutters, "I'm taking the alley behind the bar."
He watches her go, that delicate silhouette framed in shadow and the slow fade of adrenaline. No apology. No explanation. Just blood and silk and command.
Perfect.
To her back, he calls with that lazy charm, "If you find a pizza joint with haunted puppets and a jukebox that plays in Latin, save me a slice."
Then, softer, a whisper to no one in particular, "Not all monsters leave claw marks. Some just walk out like they own the night."
And with that, he followshands bloodied, grin crooked, heart still beating... for now.
SRKah says "Alright. Getting this guy teleported! "