Rules and Regulations
| Rules and Regulations | |
|---|---|
| Players |
Setting up a business means taking care of some, first. |
"Bar here," Roman says with a lopsided grin as he stretches his arms out in a broad gesture, indicating one of the far walls in the basement beneath Satin. He turns on the spot, slipping one hand into the pocket of a beaten leather bomber jacket to pull out a crumbled, but still mostly legible color swatch of greys and off-whites. "We're going to mostly leave it exposed brick, but accent it with some of this shit," he growls in his usual low, rumbling tones as he holds up the color palette to the wall and points to one of the squares. "Fuckin'..." he leans in and squints at the label, reading it off with obvious confusion, "Anchor? Anchor. What the fuck kind of a name is that?" He shrugs and drops the swatch off the wall to slip back in his pocket as he turns towards Marigold and Andreia. "What do you think?" Satin and Savagery had been under construction for a few weeks now -- it was already a bar when they'd bought it, so there wasn't a *ton* to renovate. Still, the place was covered in drop cloths and plastic sheets as brand new furniture was stacked still in its packaging all over the basement. The Grand Opening was due in only another week or so, and there was still some work to be done, but Roman thought it'd be fun to check out the place. So, he invited Andreia -- his new bartender, brawler, and the only supernatural employee of the new pair of clubs -- to inspect the place with him and Marigold. "Fight ring over here, obviously..." He continues without really waiting for an answer as he steps away from the area that would one day soon be a bar and heads out towards a large empty space on the other side of the basement. "We'll have to come up with some rules... Maybe hang them up on a chalkboard or something..."
"Named by people who don't know names should mean something," she mutters, offhand, rolling a toned shoulder against the bare brickwork behind. "I think it's a dank, dirty hole." She pauses, inhales, her nostrils flaring and mouth pulling from a grim, resting line to a crumpled mess of bestial consideration. Twisted lips spread to a wolfish grin. "I like it." She's not waiting for her reply to be acknowledged, cavalierly bouncing off the pillar into an easy lope behind her new boss, swaying closer to Marigold as she does so, her forthright gaze brushing across her throat, the chain of the pendant hanging about it. An eyebrow arches to the other woman, and then she's moving past her, running her mouth without a care. "Rules. There's so many rules here. But it's about getting better, yeah? Not about killing each other. Gotta keep it simple, or the passion dies. Fighting's in the blood, not the brain. Show respect. Bend but don't break. No /magic/." Her shoulders roll again, and she rolls her eyes at the ceiling, her voice mechanical, as if recalling a distant past. "Sound about right? Anyone fucks up, we break the rule about killing. Make 'em disappear."
There's no immediately trailing after Roman or Andreia as he starts off toward the next area, fingers jamming into the laughably small pockets of her ripped-up denim shorts, the side-laced things clinging hungrily to her curves. "There's a backroom, yeah? I'll need someplace to put my babies where they won't get knocked around." Her dark eyes flick toward a corner thoughtfully as she considers something before she starts toward Roman, no hurry in her steps. "Figure they'd be more useful down here where there's the potential for more trouble." By the time she reaches his side, though Marigold makes it more of a lazy orbiting of his space, she's looking back the other way toward that potential wall for the rules. Amusement flares back to life in her eyes as she dips her head toward Andreia. "Rules will be necessary to play nice with the Accords," she murmurs as she looks between the pair now, slim shoulders lifting in a brief shrug. "I think we'll need to be cautious about the disappearing acts, though." A beat. "Not that I'm wholly against them. I can always use... donations."
"But yes," he agrees, glancing at her and Marigold as he walks closer to the fighting-ring-to-be while he tucks both hands in his pockets. "This isn't a place for people to kill each other -- not unless I want them dead, anyway." That tugs his grin into a full blown, razor-edged smile as he steps one large foot into the center of the ring-to-be and turns to face both women. "It's a place to have fun. To beat the shit out of each other and then get a drink afterward." He pulls a hand out of his pocket to snap fingers and point at Andreia before continuing, "Respect is exactly what this ring needs. I want people leaving it bruised, beaten, and bloody -- but breathing." A pause. "Figuratively speaking, anyway." "Backroom's over there," he tells Marigold, pointing towards the door on the wall that he indicated would soon play host to a bar, "You can put them in there." He looks to Andreia after that and adds: "No one goes in the backroom besides you, me, or Marigold. Not unless one of us is there or explicitly gives them permission."
There's a basso thump of flesh intercepting bone as Andi's hand closes about Roman's wrist, a cunning little twist diverting his momentum and holding the limb in place. To her, it's almost visible, how the force dissipates before she can make use of it; and there's so much energy to spare, she notes, his grin echoed with a toothy quirk of her own maw, teeth grinding. "It's not magic," she says flatly, "If they don't know what's happening to them. To them, you're just /better/." She lets him pull away without resistance, uncurling her grip and letting it drift toward her waist, where she hooks her hand comfortably and saunters to set herself against the wall, resting easy and with a little smile on her oft-moody lips as her boss expresses his enthusiasm and acknowledges her point. It's... nice, being reminded of a better past. "Gotcha," she shoots back, her free hand flicking out a casual salute to his latter point. "So long as nobody... better than you tries anything, they won't get more than a step towards it. Anyone else, I guess we go hard." She pauses, sucks at her teeth. "We worried about anything in particular? Anyone?"
Once more, Marigold looks toward the bar space to be. She nods, giving her bottom lip a slow lick before she adds, "And no one, absolutely /no one/ beside myself or Roman touches my plants. I don't give two fucks if they say I said they could; you take their face off before they touch them." A hardness sets into Marigold's expression, tightening the corners of her eyes as that smile flattens briefly. As for the worry about threats? Marigold pauses and looks toward Roman, that tightness in her expression instantly melting away. "We haven't been in the city long enough to make too much trouble," she says before she looks back to Andreia, her smile rich and warm, eyes sparkling with that dark mirth more suited for Marigold than those threatening glowers. "So it's relatively safe to say that it's far too early to tell just yet. But the party is only getting started."
Anything to avoid boredom. "No killing magics. No brain-fuckery magics. No weapons." He rolls his shoulders to peel out of his leather jacket and offer it over to Marigold to hold before she clears the ring. "What else?"
She shrugs. "They touch your shit, I shit them out half a day later." It's a lot of bother about plants, but a good guard dog doesn't question the guarding. Besides, she knows a thing or three about valuable vegetation. The passing thought makes her stomach grumble loudly, and she grabs at a crumbling alcove beside her, scooping up a handful of old mortar and bringing it to her mouth, where it's promptly gone in a few game gnashes. She's smacking her lips, dust trembling from the bruised skin as she pushes herself toward the ring, a hand tousling her wild hair as the other shrugs out of her cut, letting it fall carelessly to the side of the structure before she pulls herself up and inside. She stamps a few times on the sprung boards, the grunt of a discerning craftsman as it passes muster. Barely. "Wolves. They're tough, yeah? Not had the pleasure." Neither does she sound terribly impressed by the prospect; arrogance? A lack of realism? Not quite. She smirks across at Roman, cricking her neck to one side, then the other. It doesn't crack, because she's already limber. /Always/ limber. "You and me could take 'em." It's not a question. Everybody has to have faith in something. And they're not talking about playing /fair/. What else? "Match doesn't start until /someone/ says," she offers confidently, flicking her chin up toward Marigold, "No cheap shots."
With the stool in place, she takes Roman's jacket and settles down to watch the bout. "No cheap shots," she echoes with a nod as she begins to commit the additional rules to memory, "and match doesn't start until someone says it does." All of that is easy peasy lemon squeezy. "No outside assistance. Your battle is your own." Her sandals get slipped off before her bare feet claim one of the rungs of the stool, her gaze heavy as it flicks between Roman and Andi, teeth working at her bottom lip briefly as that anticipation builds steadily within her. "Are we going to allow betting to take place? It's the nature of the beast when it comes to shit like fighting. If we don't openly do so, it'll happen one way or another."
With a growling laugh and a roll of his shoulder, he fixes Andreia with a *look* and says very simply: "Go." In a burst of speed, he shoves forward leaping at her rather than running across the intervening distance as he brings his fist down in a massive overhead strike that leaves him completely and utterly exposed. No attempt is made to defend himself when that fist drops down upon her, and he earns a low kick to the shin for his trouble that doesn't seem to even register as it bounces off flesh honed into a leathery resilience by decades of repeated punishment. "I agree," he calls out to both of them, a general acceptance of all their submitted rules while also a more directed agreement when Marigold suggests there'll be betting no matter what. He presses the attack, but without a need to actually breathe, he continues holding the conversation as if they hadn't begun anything more physically engaging than a light stroll. "We should take advantage. All bets go through the house."
Battle isn't an explosion. It's focus. Intensity. She's dialled in without trying, and Roman doesn't need to speak for Andreia to begin counting down mentally. Three, two, one... Go. She's already in rhythm. But sometimes, it doesn't matter. Recklessness reaps dividends, and the haymaker resounds off her brow from on high, the giant delivering the blow with a meaty smack that's rewarded with a crimson line, the skin broken, blood starting to seep through as Andreia braces past the pain, ignores it, replies with that whipping kick, and then tries to follow up only to stumble against the complete implacability of her foe. She corrects her bearing to sway toward the flank, breathing out emphatically, her core taut and dark eyes blazing solemn fire. She's controlling herself, and it shows; just a hint of rigidity in her motions, holding back from the reaction she wants to give. Remembering; there are rules. There are RULES. "Milk them until they're dry," she exudes, her throat a distant husk beneath the words that feel alien in the course of the fight - she's rarely given to speaking when she takes and causes pain. A lot of things are changing. "/Squeeze/ them." She snorts, shifts her arms to a playfully-defensive orbit, trying to read Roman's next move. "Think they call that capitalism."
Mari's focus, that heavy weight of dark eyes, remains fixed upon the Wolf as she studies the other woman's movements and control over her body. While watching Roman in action has ever been a delight for Marigold, Andreia is a new treat to savor. She nods, pleased, as her smile breaks summery again, "It's only appropriate to milk them for all they've got. And make them come crawling back to us for more until they're long past saving." A slow tease of the tip of that pink tongue glides across her upper lip as she shifts and pushes back into an upright position, shaking her dark hair off her shoulders. "We should ensure we have someone we can trust running the betting. Someone loyal with eyes on the back of their fucking head."
Then, as if to taunt her into attacking him, he takes a couple of skipping steps backwards and turns his head towards Marigold as she suggests they can't let anyone get away with under-the-table betting. "You're right," he remarks easily, "We'll have to make an example of anyone who does. We'll also have to make it clear that's what'll happen ahead of time though, so we don't end up with a Pack knocking down our door with the backing of the Accords." Just the thought of having to play politics even *that* much makes him roll his eyes, but when in Rome... Still, his clear dropping of his guard doesn't result in an attack from the Black Wolf, so Roman turns a grinning, taunting look on her before throwing his arms out wide and making it *abundantly* clear that he's waiting for her to make the next move. When she inevitably does, he twists slightly, taking the hit once again but with seemingly even less effect as her underhook slams into a wall of solid, undead flesh. Lazily -- though not contemptuously -- he lifts his trunk-like leg and delivers a solid blow to her gut in order to push her back before he starts to casually loop around the ring, his side to her and his fingers in the pockets of his jeans as he once more gives her the initiative.
There's a challenge in Andi's reply, which comes fast but without haste. She doesn't need to think about it - if she's trusted, she's confident, but the quirk of her chin carries a pride and a plea. For all her brash attitude, her swagger and her bluntness, she's in search of affirmation. Any plea dissolves with a feral little half-grin, the tip of a canine gleaming over the swell of her lip as she adds, "Which you'd better." That'd be a yes, then. Her dark eyes flash to Marigold, then back to Roman with a cant of her head as she shifts her balance from foot-to-foot, long legs swelling with subtle muscle beneath the leather that does little to inhibit her. "Why lie?" Snorts the Arcadian Hound. "This is /your/ place. /Your/ rules. Your Accords allow for that, don't they? Fight anyone if I have to, but no point asking for it. Gain more, anyway. Make this place safe for those that don't fuck around." It's the last thing she says herself before she, indeed, fucks around - and finds out. Roman is big. Strong. To some, it's cowing to come against somebody who overpowers you, is able to breeze through your offense and reply with the easy sway of a willow branch - just relenting enough, just firm enough to hurt on the rebound. Andreia is smiling. Her nostrils flare, but it's with a bridled passion and not the raw frustration of someone who needs to win -- this isn't life or death, this isn't her trying to humble or kill. It's a /bout/. Sometimes you're the best, sometimes they are, and not a lick of this hasn't been close. He's just good. Smart. Even when he's lowering his guard... He has a plan. That's a man you can follow. She retreats in a nimble backslide, rounding like the proverbial canine she is, catching herself on all four points and immediately bounding back to vertical base, grinning ear-to-ear like she's just been given a goddamn gift. "Stop going easy. Better when you just hit me."
The club is, first and foremost, Roman's baby in Marigold's eyes, even if it is theirs. So she allows the man his rule, offering insight and oversight where necessary, so she grins broadly as Andreia speaks up, white teeth flashing briefly. "This place will be safe for those who don't fuck around, but temptation is a niggling thing. There will no doubt be those who try to skirt, or break, the rules even if they /are/ listed for all to see. Wolves won't waste an opportunity to make trouble if they see a chance." A slender shoulder lifts again, indifferent, "No doubt some Kindred may try to posture. I'm eager for Court." A first maybe, but it's been some time since roots were laid down deep and true, not just something so easily rent from the earth to be tossed aside and forgotten. "I want to see what this city has to offer." Loud, warm sultry laughter rings out at Andreia's words then as her eyes narrow, and Marigold refocuses on the fight, letting her words fall to stillness just to see what the Wolf will do now.
When she rushes him, he steps to the side slightly, but his massive frame makes him an easy target to latch onto. Her flurry of knees which follows the closed clinch lands the first solid blows he's felt so far in their bout. He even grunts as the damage is severe enough to make it through that unfeeling mass of undead flesh and leave a few dents in his torso. Punching a Vampire is always a prospect of limited viability though, when there aren't anymore working organs to be disrupted by severe concussive force. So rather than disabling him, he simply uses the momentum of her own attack to grasp her by the shoulders and bring up his own, massive knee into a *solid* blow to her stomach, the force of supernatural strength doubling briefly in that singular moment to deliver yet another haymaker strike.
It lands across the bridge of her nose, the false cartilege of her mask yielding with a crunch she genuinely /enjoys/. It's so /novel/. But as she spins back across the ring, catching herself with a foot upon the wrapped-steel cord of the bottom rope, her back is arched and her breath heaving as the punishment mounts. A hand lifts and smears its messy way across her mouth, wiping away a line of bloody saliva and flicking it off toward the outside of the ring; it spatters the ground in front of Marigold, glutinously thick. "Hit like a fucking truck," she remarks, exhaling so hard she snorts, stamping forward. She's a better grappler, a wrestler, than a boxer, but she jukes in like one anyway, the balls of her feet scuffing the rough canvas. He's a counter-fighter, she knows it. She should wait. But /he's/ waiting. Her dark eyes scream what she's feeling; fuck it. "What happens at the finish? We break it up or let it play out? Someone's gotta step in when a fighter loses it." Is that her, too? A smirk, as she bobs and weaves. "Might have to break our own rules for that. I'm better when I don't have any."
"Impressive," she chuckles low and sweet as her feet crossed at the ankle, painted toes toying at the rung as she shifts her focus, and composes herself. "But while I'm confident you can juggle whatever Roman wants to throw at you, he will have to step in here and there to handle business, too." The dark glitter of Marigold's eyes makes their way over toward her lover, that eager light within a brightly burning flame as she regards him for a moment. "But, if we need you to step in to break up a fight, I'm certain you can more than handle yourself," she continues with a slanting of eyes back to Andreia, thoughtful and vaguely hungry, a thing that flickers in and out of existence before it fades away. "Hopefully, it won't come to combatants losing their shit too often. But I imagine both of you will have your fun and eat it too." Rules, rules, rules.
"I want this to be a place of respect. I want people who walk into this ring to respect their opponents, and I want people who watch these fights to respect the fighters. It'll be on everyone to enforce the rules. I want the whole club to be invested in these rules, these fighters... This... Everything." He spreads his arms out wide to indicate the whole ring, though he looks around with an expression like he truly means the whole *concept* of what he's trying to build in that dingy, dirty, dank basement. "I want them to fight with everything they've got, and at the end look each other in the eyes..." he says as he stops and settles in front of her, staring her down and meeting her gaze with a manic grin, "And say: Good fuckin' brawl." Then he hauls back and swings, landing one last devastating punch to her jaw that sends her sprawling out of the ring. | |