Riot Folk

[Harlequin]

The sound check had taken place long before the club got busy. Of course, this meant that the band had to be awake and alert in full daylight, which left them too tired to be able to take in the novelty of such a thing. Despite being human, they were nocturnal animals.
 
Sound check would have been done even earlier, had the originally scheduled band not all mysteriously fallen victim to a violent bout of food poisoning. "Told \'em not to eat the sushi," Morgaine had muttered, the dark skinned, Indian beauty with the tattooed face, through her hung-over, weary haze. Her band mates had laughed, slowly, and pounded through the rest of sound check, gone back to their seedy hotel rooms, and collapsed into their rather crusty beds.
 
The Wild Hunt hadn\'t even been in town for a week, and already they were painting it red.
 
None of their earlier weariness showed, however, now, when they bounced onstage. Well, Morgaine bounced, in her short pleated skirt, pigtails and Spice Girls T-shirt ; Chance skanked, making a huge racket with the large silver bells pierced through his calves; Ami jogged, stags mask already hiding her face, – tied behind her head with red ribbon; Joe strutted, taking his place behind the drum set with the air of a really laid-back king at his throne; Vivianne glided.
 
Morgaine slid her canary yellow Gibson over her head and took her place at the mic. Ami picked up her black Fender bass and slung it over her shoulder, nervous fingers already picking at the strings as Vivianne took her seat, and lifted her harp into her lap, a swirl of torn lace and dirty silk skirts. Chance plugged in both guitars, and then took a penny whistle from his pocket, head bobbing as he jigged in place, light caught in the spikes of his gold hair. Morgaine turned her gaze to the dancefloor – packed, by now – with a flash of silver, off the belled chain connecting a nose piercing to the corresponding ear. A grin crept over her face as she spoke into the mic, "Hey, y\'all." A few hoots from the floor, "Razorsphere couldn\'t make it tonight –" she paused, to allow for the laments from the floor over the loss of their popular band "–I know. I\'s a tragedy. But, hey, you got us, instead." Her grin widened, knowing no one here had ever heard of them before, "So, yeah. You might have heard of riot folk, that\'s what we do," she went on, "We\'re Wild Hunt!"
 
And with that, she struck a power chord, and Joe laid a gentle beat on the snare – drumsticks firm in his big, dark hands – as it died in the air, with a gentle, repeating tune from Chance\'s penny whistle, and a soft appregio from Vivianne\'s harp, as Morgaine\'s voice rang out, intoxicating and raw and sweet,
 
"Your prayers are wasted, sweetie
And so are your tears
\'Cause God is great, and God is good
But he ain\'t welcome here"
 
On the last line, Ami\'s bass came in, guttural and primal, and Moraine\'s voice dropped. the penny whistle sped up, becoming frenetic, but the drums and harp didn\'t alter. Morgaine played a hard rhythm on her guitar as she sang.
 
"We heard the horns of Elfland
Whistlin\' in our ears
While we stormed the castle
On our horses made of steel."
 
The bridge came, and Viviannes harp faded out, only to fade back in at the chorus, where the drums picked up, fast and brutal,
 
"We\'re what shines in the shadows
The luck of a fascist nation
We\'re the disabused minstrels
For the next generation
 
We were born to wake the dead
We were born to rise
We were born to shake the Earth
And still the rolling sky."
 
The second verse broke the pace a bit, but lacked none of the power,
 
"We\'ll sing our song of sickness
To our dyin\' gasp
And we\'ll all slip down through the cracks
Like ashes in your grasp
 
We wrote the Gospel of the gutter
With lies and faerie tricks
With glitter and with Heroin
Shot up in a spinning wheel\'s prick
 
We\'re what shines in the shadows
The luck of a fascist nation
We\'re the disabused minstrels
For the next generation
 
We were born to wake the dead
We were born to rise
We were born to shake the Earth
And still the rolling sky."
 
They repeated the chorus twice more, before letting the song die on a low note.
 
From there, they played for a few hours, sweat glistening off their skin. Young, alive, exuberant, human. They played the songs that some of the older creatures would remember from their past, long ago, and songs that even the younger ones would remember - but each song became their own. "The Spanish Lady" turned into a dark tale of stalking, the slaying of a beautiful woman, "Last resort" became a lounge hit, "Matty Groves," was transformed into a punk-rock tale of joy, and freedom. The words weren\'t theirs, but they might as well have been.
 
At the end of the set, Ami\'s shirt was gone, lost somewhere in the churning mass of the dancefloor, leaving her clad in a polka-dot pushup bra to go with her black and red striped stockings, worn under cut off capri pants. They were all breathing hard as they left the stage, and pouring sweat, but grinning like idiots. They almost immediately took a seat at a booth off the dance floor, after storing their instruments back stage and applied some much-needed deodorant. A laughing, rowdy, sweaty gaggle of youth and humanity.

[Existentially Odd]

Kerr had come to Risk for a quiet drink, seeking a place of solace in which to ruminate on his various problems and attempt to pinpoint a way that he might muddle his way through with his heart intact.  The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, though (so they say), and not long after he\'d taken possession of his first glass of warm O+, the night\'s entertainment had taken the stage.

It seemed to be a thing the management had decided to undertake at least once a week at Risk; live bands instead of the usual grungy, industrial music played over the sound system.  He\'d caught two different bands so far - one of them twice - and it seemed tonight would reveal a third lot.  He watched the ragged band walk to their positions - though it wasn\'t easy to see everything through the thick crowd (it seemed a popular choice to invite live rock in once in a while, that was for sure) - and then turned back to his blood, not expecting overly much beyond screaming vocals, pounding drums and thrashing guitars.

He was to learn very quickly that he was wrong.  The band was like nothing he\'d ever heard before, for their style was as ecclectic as their ensemble, and most of the instruments they used to create their almost dischordant symphonies were rarely played these days.  A harp, for instance - he\'d never seen one of those employed by a modern... rock?  Punk?  Grunge?... band.  A lot of what he heard was traditional, one or two even hailing from Ireland.  Of course, he\'d never heard \'Matty Groves\' presented quite like that before, and it brought a wolfish grin to his face.  He\'d always been rather partial to the song - having begun his life of sexual awareness as just such a boy, beckoned into a married Lady\'s bed while her husband was out hunting - but the way Wild Hunt performed it... he was in fucking love.

He was transfixed by their change of pace.  \'Last Resort\' was heard and understood clearly and though he didn\'t know the song (unlike the rest of the crowd, who roared approval and even laughter), it struck a very uncomfortable chord within him.  He moved around on his bar stool quite a lot during that song, throwing his drink back as a distraction, trying hard to forget the lyrics

I never realized I was spread too thin
\'Til it was too late and I was empty within
Hungry, feeding on chaos and living in sin
Downward spiral, where do I begin...

When the band finally left the stage, a rolling wave of energy seemed to be released throughout the club.  The usual music came on overhead, prompting wild dancing to begin throughout the room (which seemed somehow darker now that the stage lights were no longer flaring, flashing and highlighting the concert) and a swarm of fans to flock to the booth where the band had chosen to sit.  Kerr had the urge to go to them himself, merely to express his sheer appreciation for the twists they\'d given their music, but he bided his time, waiting until there was less of a throng and the band were more approachable.  He peered their way repeatedly, hoping that perhaps one of them would come towards the bar.  Unfortunately for him, management had been supplying them with whatever drinks they wished, the whole night, so they didn\'t really need to make any effort.

Therefore, he sat and watched, relieved when the rock-style \'Matty Groves\' finally began beating unwanted lyrics out of his mind.

[Harlequin]

They had fans. For the first time in their careers, Wild Hunt had fans. Mobs of them, apparently.
 
Joe signed offered cleaveage with an indulgent smile, and Chance avoided his share as well as he could. Morgaine was exstatic, laughing and joking with the small mob as if she were queen of the world. Ami was slightly annoyed, knowing now that she was never going to get her shirt back, and her voice rang out in protest when she found that someone had stolen her drink while she wasn\'t looking. Another was brought quickly, however, and she quieted.
 
Vivianne, however, was terrified, folded into one corner of the booth. She\'d never played an actual venue before - she was used to playing parks and abandoned houses, or docks, whenever the hell they felt like it, and for only as long as they felt like. She liked that, it was free and anonymous. but this was different. This was frightening. There were too many people. Too many beautiful, inhuman women whom she wanted to hold, to kiss. One of them reached out, noticing the slim teen for the first time, and their hands touched. But then, Morgaine made a joke, and the attention was ripped away, and Vivianne was left feeling strangely empty.
 
She wanted to go home.
 
Slowly, though, the crowd drifted away, and the band was left in relative peace, though the laughter amongst themselves didn\'t stop for an instant. After awhile, Chance got bored, and made his way to the bar, lithe, toned, shirtless still and jingling. "So, they seriously sell blood by the glass here, huh?" he asked of the dark-haired, bearded man he\'d come up beside, glancing at the empty glass in his own hands, tinged with a rime of bloody red, "Like real fucking human blood?" His tone wasn\'t derisive or judgemental, simply conversational -- he was asking because he wanted to know.

[Cy for Cypher]

Normally Malcolm’s talent was blending into his surroundings, fading away into whatever backdrop he found himself presented against. This outing was probably the first instance he encountered where his usual trick wouldn’t work. This was... not a place for his kind. Not at all.  Not only was he a werewolf, but he was an untrendy werewolf in a very trendy vampire hangout. He was down two for two. That, coupled with the fact that Malcolm’s usual dullness made him, in this instance, stick out like a sore thumb, left him feeling very nervous that night.

He had gone to the club without a second thought, really. In hindsight, he figured he should have probably... done some of that there thinking--first or second thoughts included--before stepping into a club full of nothing but vampires. Vampires were not typically very welcome of werewolves, goodness knew why. Half of the people in this joint were probably human and couldn’t tell Malcolm from Adam, but the other half he was sure were aware of just what he was. This wasn’t the biggest of Malcolm’s problems, either. The biggest was probably that this whole venture was most likely going to turn out to be a bust.

An earlier conversation with an ancient vampire had convinced him to go seeking the supernatural. Again. Since long before his being bitten, Malcolm had found himself submerged in the dark, magical underworld of the earth’s more sinister and wondrous species, and living a mundane existence--now that he was one of them, even--was actually starting to grate on his nerves. Malcolm wanted to know more about his kind, and had not done much planning in his enthusiasm. He’d just wanted to get started. Enough waiting. Enough distancing himself from where he wanted to be. He’d been wanting to return to this night-life for a long, long time, and when he finally made the decision he had just burst out into his new plan like an overenthusiastic dog. The extent of his preparation was to make sure the place he went to was a relatively secure place, an establishment, somewhere a little more stable than a shabby meeting in a back alley.

He hadn’t stopped to make sure, though, that the place he chose was not a bar specially tailored to the needs of hordes of goddamned vampires. Malcolm was willing to bet he was the only werewolf there.

So it was not really all that unusual that he found himself nursing a light drink (he was not looking to get plastered, but he was unwilling to leave this place without something to show for his effort, and a pleasant buzz was better than nothing). He was dimly aware of the band playing, only vaguely processing the roar of the crowd, the wailing of the instruments. The occasional snatches of harp that reached his ears piqued his momentary interest, but Malcolm was quickly drawn back into his own thoughts.

This was definitely not the place to go to learn more about his kind, but maybe--he grinned to himself, a sweater-clad figure seated alone at the bar--he would find a gypsy or two. Malcolm tipped his overpriced drink it a cheer to no-one in particular and took a sip.

And then coughed loudly, because he was not used to drinking alcohol of any strength.

[Existentially Odd]

Kerr looked up in surprise at the curious question, eyes lighting up as he saw that it was one of the band, a warm chuckle then floating out from between his lips.  "Yes.  They do," he agreed after a moment\'s hesitation, wary of confirming vampire habits to someone who smelled delightfully mortal.  Surely they were screened and had supernatural knowledge, to be playing here, though?  "Real fucking human blood," the Irishman quoted back at the young blonde, grinning despite himself.

"Hey, I really loved your performance earlier," he complimented, hoping the other would allow him to change the subject as he saw fit.  His grin was something very close to adoring as his gaze roved the boy\'s face.  "That interpretation of Matty Groves was just exquisite!" he gushed, body turning to face the mortal more fully as he sat casually atop his swivelling barstool.  He glanced away as a loud cough sounded nearby, but was soon admiring the blue eyes of the band member again.

[Harlequin]

"Yeah?" said Chance, smiling slightly as he looked down at the man on the barstool. He leaned back against the bar, then, and turned his eyes back toward his rowdy bandmates, "Thanks. Most people don\'t even know what the hell it is we\'re playing, unless we throw somethin fucking popular in there." He laughed, "But, shit, it\'s like...people – Is it okay if I use that word? People? or is it, like some huge fucking insult, to be reduced to fucking human level, or something? – Anyway. Guys, dolls, whatever – they might\'ve been around, like, when this shit was actually being played, down and dirty, like, for real. They know." He laughed again.

"It\'s just a shame you didn\'t get to see Viv play – that\'s the harpist. Blonde one, all fuckin\' folded up in the corner, there." He gestured at the booth, now barely visible in the crowd, "She can sing in Gaelic. Welsh, too. Fuckin\' angelic, I swear to God. She\'s fuckin\' terrified, though." He snorted, shook his head, and turned his body to face Kerr more fully.

He glanced up, though, over the tall man\'s head, to seek out the cougher – a rather drab man, seated two spots down from Kerr, "Hey, bud, you okay?" he asked, without any real concern.
 Chance felt he should at least acknowledge the fact that someone might be choking to death – or whatever – before continuing his conversation.

[Cy for Cypher]

Malcolm, at first, didn’t know the comment was being directed his way. Considering the fact he was in a bar where voluntary bloodletting took place, he figured that sort of thing was a common comment to have flung around. When he heard no reply, he blinked and looked about, his abstracted, dull gaze finally resting on the boy. He nodded with the slightest hint of a smile.

“Sorry,” he said, unsure exactly why he was apologizing. He couldn’t really help it. “Got a little too, uh,” he stopped talking to consider the right word, “Ahead of myself?” he shrugged and turned to face the two a bit more fully. “Thank you for asking, though.”

He didn’t know if it would be considered butting in if he talked further, but the two in front of him looked harmless enough. They might consider talking to a werewolf out of his element. Malcolm gave a gentle, experimental sniff--the bearded fellow was definitely a vampire, way past dead, but he didn’t detect anything unusual from the boy. He smelled like a normal human.

But if he knew anything about body language, the vampire was also very enthusiastically directing his attention at the boy, and it didn’t seem to be the “Let me sock yer blot” sort of attention. This drew the corners of Malcolm’s mouth further apart into a grin, and he decided to let them alone unless further invited into the conversation. He wasn’t drunk enough to discard his own personal rules of etiquette, and he probably wouldn’t get there tonight, either.

[Existentially Odd]

Realising that the man he was talking was addressing someone behind him - where the cough had originated - Kerr immediately  spun back, lest he be rude.  Of course, he was a little more hesitant when he smelled a lycan on the air, but then he told himself that that was merely past prejudice catching up with him, memory flashes of another werewolf he\'d believed likely to deceive - or even harm - Mandy, influencing his opinion.  Even then, he\'d known how little he... well, how little he knew about werewolves and had been proved wrong when Arvis had only had the mortal\'s best interests at heart.  They\'d both been suffering under the same misconceptions of ignorance, in fact, so it was certainly time Kerr opened his mind a little.

The vampire therefore smiled pleasantly at the werewolf, waiting for him to have his chance to compliment the band member on his performance too.  "Didn\'t you think the band were great?" he encouraged, when the dowdy lycan said nothing more.

[Harlequin]

Chance coughed gently and reached up to scratch at the short blonde hairs at the back of his neck – more for something to do with his hands than because he actually had an itch. He wasn\'t used to compliments – not by way of his music, anyway, "Heh, thanks," he said awkwardly, but his attention was quickly diverted by someone wading through the crowd toward toward the bar, "Awforfuck\'s –" he muttered under his breath, as Ami – still clad only in her brassiere up top, and minus the beaten copper mask – came to rest on Malcolms other side, glaring heatedly at Chance.

"I knew you were all talk, you royal puss," she stated frankly, addressing her bandmate over the heads of Kerr and Malcolm, "You can\'t state a challenge and then not go through. Not cool. Really. Am I right?" She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the bar top, and swatted Malcolm\'s shoulder gently with her right, to show that the question was addressed to him.

[Cy for Cypher]

Malcolm didn’t have any preconceptions about vampires. He was too boringly sensible for that. He’s had friends who were vampires, and they were all gone now, and he had known vampires who’d been enemies, too. It could also be that--especially when compared to creatures like the ancient before him--he was very young, and deep grudges had yet a chance to take root. Odds were that Malcolm would not be stacking up personal vendettas anytime soon.

“I can’t claim to have paid you my complete attention. Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly, “I was a bit preoccupied. I will give you this, though,” his grin became a little less sheepish and a little more genuine, “At first I thought that more than one band had taken the stage. For variety, I don’t think you guys can be beat. My ears aren’t easily fooled, so you all must be very flexible.”

Now that he was actually talking to a member of the band, he felt a little bad that he’d spent his time fretting and moping when he could have been absorbing the happenings around him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “I”m Malcolm, by the way.”

And then he looked up, blinking over the tops of his glasses as he tried to spy the lady behind him. He received the whap for all his efforts, but he just swayed gently under her hand, docile as an old golden retriever. “Challenge?” he raised his eyebrows. “Am I missing something?” he got the distinct feeling he was, and he hoped it wasn’t the drink. He wasn’t drunk yet, was he? He certainly didn’t feel drunk. “What’s all this about a challenge?”

[Existentially Odd]

The werewolf had a name and Kerr had the instant desire to return the gesture in kind, but he was halted from doing so by a surprise new arrival.  The corner of Kerr\'s mouth lifted in a devious half grin as a scantily-clad young lady strode boldly up to the bar.  He looked her over automatically (the grin only growing wider) and then his gaze transferred to Malcolm sputtering about a challenge, and the other band member, to whom the address was made.

The vampire looked distinctly interested by now, the amazing energy and passion exuded by these mortals striking his senses alluringly, causing him to want to keep them near him for sheer charisma purposes, if not entertainment value.  "What was the challenge?" he asked the blonde musician, then found himself turning back to the female - both because she was far prettier to look at and because he felt he\'d get the quickest answer from her.

[Harlequin]

"You\'re drunk, Ami," said Chance, covering his face with his hand to suppress laughter, "Very very fucking drunk." It was true, she swayed a little where she stood, but her eyes were clear,  her voice wasn\'t overly slurred, and her answer came  quickly.

"Noooo," she said, "Yes. But. Doesn\'t change the fact." She seemed momentarily indecisive about whom she wanted to direct her answer to, but she chose Malcolm – it seemed she\'d already marked him as her buddy, "Morgaine said that she\'d chug a glass of blood, – They sell that here. Weird shit. – \'cause I dared her to.  And Chance – \'s the little blonde shit –" she pointed a wavering finger at Chance, "Challenged her. I wanna see which one of \'em barfs first." Childish? Maybe. Hilarious? Definetly. "You guys should come watch." She added, after a pause. Abruptly, she turned toward the barman, and ordered the two glasses of Hemoglobin – staring him down drunkenly despite the odd look.

"For fucks sake," repeated Chance, "You will pay for this in tears, you slut," he muttered good naturedly.

[Cy for Cypher]

Malcolm cocked his head with a very sightly smile--every movement, every expression was subdued, coming through to the others as though they had been filtered through static or some form of suppressant. Everything about him was so muffled, so muted, it was easy to forget he was there at all. In an outrageous place like this, though, such obscurity could make him stand out. It depended on who was doing the looking--and, well, how drunk they were. “Really? That sounds... nauseating,” he laughed, obviously having no appetite for blood.

He let the events take place around him, sipping his drink. He’d forgotten the name of it--something obscure, with numbers as well as words in the title. It didn’t seem too potent, but Malcolm was drinking it sparingly as well, so he didn\'t know how he\'d feek when the glass was through. He looked to Kerr and raised his eyebrows, as if to silently say, “This is getting interesting.” and when Ami had finished her display, he turned his dull eyes to Chance instead.

“Are you going through with it?” he queried curiously, taking another sip.

[Existentially Odd]

Kerr blinked at Chance\'s harsh threat, finding the almost-cheery way he delivered the words to be quite frightening in their indifference.  He glanced at Ami and was both relieved and appalled that she wasn\'t reacting at all, was instead concentrating on getting her glasses of blood, for the mortals to drink.

He was a vampire, and the thought disgusted him.

He turned to look at Chance, unable to stop himself from advising in the negative.  "You shouldn\'t; it will be bad for you.  Ami\'s right, you will vomit and you don\'t even know if there are diseases or anything in the blood.  They don\'t exactly need to screen it and I\'m sure they happily accept the rejected donations here," he warned, assuming the two band members knew about the vampirism rife in the club... even though, as he took a second to think about it, they\'d thought it \'weird\' that blood was served here.

Oh fuck.  Visions of more jaunts over to the Oligarchy sent cold shudders through him as Chance answered.

[Harlequin]

Ami was engaged in a heated argument with the barman as to whether or not she had to pay for the beverages, seeing as to how they weren\'t prescribed for human consumption. Chance had been about to answer Malcolm\'s question, when Kerr\'s speech stopped him.

Mouth open in his forgotten reply, his lips twisted into a somewhat frightened sneer of disgust, "No." Chance finally replied, once Kerr was done, "Not a chance. No fuckin\' way. Isn\'t it weird, how blood is such an integral part of being...fuckin\' alive, and there\'s so much shit that can wrong with it? That\'s fuckin\' irony." He said this last part to no one in particular, before turning his attention to Ami again.

"Hey, whore, just leave it, would ya?"

She looked at him, abandoning her argument with the bartender, "Fuck you," she said.

"No. Seriously. It\'s not...clean." He twisted up his face and stuck out his tongue in distaste.

"Oh, shit, really?"

Chance nodded, and Ami shrugged, waving off the annoyed barman, "Well, there goes that plan," She sagged against the bar.

"You could come meet the rest of the fuckers, anyway," offered Chance, to both of their companions, jerking his head toward the booth where his mates were still congregated, "The indian chick\'s probably way too fucked up at this point to notice, but the other two should be...lucid."