Florida. The Sunshine State.
There was a poetic irony there which hadn't escaped Dorian's notice when he'd been informed he was moving. He'd been there before, many years ago. Back when several of his employers were businessmen of dubious repute, who had winter getaways in the south. His current "employers" were of even worse repute, but now as then, he was in a poor position to refuse.
He'd made some people mad. Mad enough to send their ghouls, minutes before dawn, to his haven with a couple of cocktails for him. The molotov kind. Probably would have worked on a novice to the game, too. Dorian had learned a long time ago to always have an escape route. He'd spent an uncomfortable daytime as a heap at the bottom of an old cistern, cutoff from the main sewer lines by the deep tunnel project last decade. Dorian had woken up with a sore neck, a dirty suit, and a piss-poor attitude. The collapsing structure up above would help conceal the entrance even more so. The town had officially gotten too hot for him. Staying was suicide and the rats like him were good at surviving.
Dorian was owed favors in turn. Connections he'd made. People who'd hidden unwanted things, with Dorian's help. They were as trustworthy as every other parasite of their ilk, but a favor was a favor, and in his line of work, if you didn't have your word to go on, well... you didn't have anything.
Sunset Beach Condos... the ironic naming conventions were just getting better by the minute. He'd arranged for a ground floor unit, somewhere he could hide out for a couple months... or years... until things calmed down.
At least it sounded like there was good eating in the area around it...
There was a poetic irony there which hadn't escaped Dorian's notice when he'd been informed he was moving. He'd been there before, many years ago. Back when several of his employers were businessmen of dubious repute, who had winter getaways in the south. His current "employers" were of even worse repute, but now as then, he was in a poor position to refuse.
He'd made some people mad. Mad enough to send their ghouls, minutes before dawn, to his haven with a couple of cocktails for him. The molotov kind. Probably would have worked on a novice to the game, too. Dorian had learned a long time ago to always have an escape route. He'd spent an uncomfortable daytime as a heap at the bottom of an old cistern, cutoff from the main sewer lines by the deep tunnel project last decade. Dorian had woken up with a sore neck, a dirty suit, and a piss-poor attitude. The collapsing structure up above would help conceal the entrance even more so. The town had officially gotten too hot for him. Staying was suicide and the rats like him were good at surviving.
Dorian was owed favors in turn. Connections he'd made. People who'd hidden unwanted things, with Dorian's help. They were as trustworthy as every other parasite of their ilk, but a favor was a favor, and in his line of work, if you didn't have your word to go on, well... you didn't have anything.
Sunset Beach Condos... the ironic naming conventions were just getting better by the minute. He'd arranged for a ground floor unit, somewhere he could hide out for a couple months... or years... until things calmed down.
At least it sounded like there was good eating in the area around it...
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