Post by Donne "Adonis" Kinclaith on Aug 4, 2018 16:09:14 GMT -5
(Ooh baby, I'm a put-on-a-show kind of girl...)
Donne Kinclaith (Adonis to his clientele) drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the music as he drove, following the directions he'd printed out to the address a friend of a friend had given him. Cleveland was pretty different from Vegas, LA, Paris, London, or anywhere he'd ever really thought he'd end up when he left home. But, like Britney, he could make anywhere a stage--he'd managed to have a good time at the 75th birthday party of the Watcher's Academy's headmaster's maiden aunt, without offending anyone, how many people could say that?--and, besides, Cleveland had its attractions beyond just being located in a state he couldn't picture Riven following him to.
For instance, it had a Wolfram and Hart branch office--although he would probably have to visit in person to see if they ran a talent agency like the Las Vegas one did. He might have to renegotiate the contract, for that matter. That was his next stop after this. And, not unrelatedly, it was located on a Hellmouth, which meant a higher proportion of clients who could be clued in about his... unique talents. And, speaking of the supernatural and supernaturally-aware community--he thought as he turned into an incredibly middle-class-looking suburban housing development that, frankly, looked like the type of neighborhood whose Homeowner's Association would have a NO SLAYERS bylaw--he could only hope that the rules for moving in to someone's territory in Cleveland were the same as what he was used to.
He glanced over at the bouquet: grass, cattail, white heather, white freesia, Queen Anne's lace, oleander (the only splash of colour), and the centerpiece, a peace lily. He had to hope this would be an acceptable offering as tribute, and the Slayer wouldn't demand, say, a bouquet of weapons, or something even more expensive. This last year of laying low and getting clean had not been good for his finances, even with the support of the daughter of the wealthiest dragon he'd ever met and his sister. Getting this car, moving across the country, and updating his wardrobe had about drained his account--the particularly decorative parts of the peacock-tail-sleeved suit he was wearing were entirely illusory, for God's sake. He was practically living like a peasant. If he had to spend any more money on tribute to the Slayer, he'd have to do something drastic, like get a roommate. He shuddered with horror as the song came to an end and he spotted the house address he was looking for.
He'd just have to make a good first impression with the bouquet, he decided as he parked. This was not a new resolution; he'd spent the journey to Cleveland entertaining himself by coming up with increasingly horrifying possibilities of who would answer the door when he reached the house the Slayer was using as headquarters (his contact did not actually know who the Slayer in Cleveland was or whom she lived with, which was, ah, exciting), and what he would do in response.
Straightforward. Terrifying. (But really, what was the likelihood of either of the latter two happening? Barely more likely than something completely absurd, like two Slayers comfortably sharing territory, or an evil Slayer, or something.) Less terrifying, still, than the thought of being mistaken for a demon by a Slayer on account of not making this visit, though.
Fortunately, he thought as he straightened his peacock bowtie and gathered up the bouquet, making a good first impression was a Donne Kinclaith specialty. He had hardly ever unintentionally offended anyone on first meeting them in a way that he couldn't sweet-talk his way out of (except for that unfortunate incident with the corgi when he was still learning to drive, which was a decade ago, ancient history, didn't count). He had this.
Donne Kinclaith (Adonis to his clientele) drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the music as he drove, following the directions he'd printed out to the address a friend of a friend had given him. Cleveland was pretty different from Vegas, LA, Paris, London, or anywhere he'd ever really thought he'd end up when he left home. But, like Britney, he could make anywhere a stage--he'd managed to have a good time at the 75th birthday party of the Watcher's Academy's headmaster's maiden aunt, without offending anyone, how many people could say that?--and, besides, Cleveland had its attractions beyond just being located in a state he couldn't picture Riven following him to.
For instance, it had a Wolfram and Hart branch office--although he would probably have to visit in person to see if they ran a talent agency like the Las Vegas one did. He might have to renegotiate the contract, for that matter. That was his next stop after this. And, not unrelatedly, it was located on a Hellmouth, which meant a higher proportion of clients who could be clued in about his... unique talents. And, speaking of the supernatural and supernaturally-aware community--he thought as he turned into an incredibly middle-class-looking suburban housing development that, frankly, looked like the type of neighborhood whose Homeowner's Association would have a NO SLAYERS bylaw--he could only hope that the rules for moving in to someone's territory in Cleveland were the same as what he was used to.
He glanced over at the bouquet: grass, cattail, white heather, white freesia, Queen Anne's lace, oleander (the only splash of colour), and the centerpiece, a peace lily. He had to hope this would be an acceptable offering as tribute, and the Slayer wouldn't demand, say, a bouquet of weapons, or something even more expensive. This last year of laying low and getting clean had not been good for his finances, even with the support of the daughter of the wealthiest dragon he'd ever met and his sister. Getting this car, moving across the country, and updating his wardrobe had about drained his account--the particularly decorative parts of the peacock-tail-sleeved suit he was wearing were entirely illusory, for God's sake. He was practically living like a peasant. If he had to spend any more money on tribute to the Slayer, he'd have to do something drastic, like get a roommate. He shuddered with horror as the song came to an end and he spotted the house address he was looking for.
He'd just have to make a good first impression with the bouquet, he decided as he parked. This was not a new resolution; he'd spent the journey to Cleveland entertaining himself by coming up with increasingly horrifying possibilities of who would answer the door when he reached the house the Slayer was using as headquarters (his contact did not actually know who the Slayer in Cleveland was or whom she lived with, which was, ah, exciting), and what he would do in response.
- If it was a girl or woman he didn't recognise: ask if he had the honour of speaking to the Slayer, give her the bouquet if yes;
- If it was a man he didn't recognise: ask if the Slayer was present, and what time he should return if not;
- If it was one of the two Slayers whose legends had grown to the point he'd found it prudent to look up their pictures, try to maintain his composure (...consciousness... hold on bladder...) while offering her the bouquet as planned;
- If, as credible rumour back in Vegas had maintained was a possibility, one of the bloody Scourge of Europe answered the door, try to maintain composure, consciousness, hold on bladder, hold on life, while asking after the Slayer as planned.
Straightforward. Terrifying. (But really, what was the likelihood of either of the latter two happening? Barely more likely than something completely absurd, like two Slayers comfortably sharing territory, or an evil Slayer, or something.) Less terrifying, still, than the thought of being mistaken for a demon by a Slayer on account of not making this visit, though.
Fortunately, he thought as he straightened his peacock bowtie and gathered up the bouquet, making a good first impression was a Donne Kinclaith specialty. He had hardly ever unintentionally offended anyone on first meeting them in a way that he couldn't sweet-talk his way out of (except for that unfortunate incident with the corgi when he was still learning to drive, which was a decade ago, ancient history, didn't count). He had this.
