The Privilege of Age - Abaddon

[Deleted]

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. Tap.

The slim, dark wood cane beat a staccato rhythm on the old linoleum of the diner floor.  It was barely audible over the general bustle of the diner and the tinny music playing over old speakers.  The restaurant was full of the usual crowd- truckers, people waiting for the bus, some teenagers with nothing else to do.  Among them in a small pool of quiet sat a lean, olive skinned older man.  His black hair fell in waves to his shoulders, peppered through with strands of iron grey.  It framed a craggy, sharp cheek boned face that spoke of a life long and well lived.  His posture was erect as he sat on the stool, back straight and shoulders square.  One of his hands rested lightly on the counter, fingers curled around an untouched cup of coffee that had long since stopped steaming.

It wasn't terribly late, but he's been here for hours already.

The tarnished, dark silver knob of the walking stick sat securely between his fingers.  As his grip shifted, the shape of the grip showed clearly for a moment as a bird's head, sharp beaked, with chips of black stones for eyes.  They matched the dark eyes of the man at the counter who watcher the diner with an air of predatory interest.  His gaze never lingered so long on any one person as to draw too much attention but a distinct quieting of voices followed the sweep of his gaze as the unconscious instincts of prey welled up and whispered in the hind brains of these people to walk softly and make little noise.  A predator was among them.

Tap. Tap.

His face was implacable, and unreadable mask that spoke faintly of disapproval if only because of the natural turn of his lips.  The cane continued it's sharp beat, in time with nothing but the music that hummed in his bones.  Ignacio was quite content to be left alone in his pool of solitude at the counter for the moment, but the intrusion of the waitress was met with nothing more vile than a smile that would have been gentle, almost grandfatherly if not for the fierceness of his eyes.

"Can I get you anything else, sir?"  No honey or darling here.  The waitress was a robust, middle-aged woman who typically took no nonsense from anyone.  The cool, steady measure of his eyes soon had her drop her gaze though in involuntary submission.  His smile grew, lips tight sealed together.

"Another coffee, please.  This one has gone cold."  She didn't comment on the fact that it was undrunk, only took away the cup to pour him a fresh one.  His accent was primarily American but there was something about the way he said certain sounds, and a throatiness to his voice that whispered of long dead tongues and far away places.  The steaming mug was placed before him and again he let his fingers curl around the white porcelain in a loose grip.  Then she left him, and he returned to his silence.  

Never once did the cane cease to beat it's sharp song against the floor.

[ABADDON]

The Last Chance Diner, a terribly cliched name, though aptly appropriate. It was the last respite for weary traveler's as they left the curios town of Brookings and made their arduous, hundred mile journey back into the mundane world. Their last chance to reconsider, to doubt, to return to a life they knew or to embrace the unknown looming before them. It seemingly straddled the boundary between the flux of magic that was Brookings and the rest of the realm, a sort of mystical estuary. It had been Abaddon's first taste of Brookings and his own last chance to return to what he knew or embrace the unknown. He had chosen the latter of course. Discarding all of the trappings of Hell, the prestige, the notoriety, the ungodly responsibility of having Daemons underfoot and embraced his humanity, what little of it there was. This meager structure with it's constantly changing clientele was the last place he had called himself Abaddon. The Last Chance held a special place in his blackened heart as it tangentially connected his former self with his new persona. it was the perfect place to take a step back and examine his current situation. A place to slip out of the skin of Benjamin Colfax and for a brief moment objectively observe the nature of the human condition. He couldn't truly do that though until he was good and comfortable. Hidden in his favorite booth with a cup of Ethel's coffee in hand. 

Benjamin expected to do just that as he pressed open the door of the diner, the small bell atop the door clanging to signal his arrival. What he found was most perplexing. While the Last Chance was never boisterous it always had a certain quiet din to it. A scattering of several conversations, the tap of silverware against well worn dishes, and occasionally a song emanating from the dilapidated jukebox in the corner.  It was all still there but somehow seemed muted as if everything was attempting to whisper, trying not to wake some fiendish nightmare.  The almost silence that filled the small room bore a weight that seemed to spurn other's to lower their tone and there was a feeling that he had not sensed in years, since he himself had inspired it in other's.

There was a sense of overwhelming dread.

Benjamin followed the eyes of the patrons of the Last Chance and looked to where they would not. As his eyes trailed towards the source of this fear a soft tapping became noticeable. At first it seemed oddly erratic, a broken song that didn't quite desire to be completed, comfortable in it's own dissonance, possibly proud. At last, Benjamin laid eyes upon the figure. At a glance he was nothing more than a man nearing his twilight years. More regal and composed than most men had any right to be, but nothing too unsettling. It wasn't until Benjamin stepped further into the diner that he could sense the savagery that seemed to be leashed on nothing more than a single thread. An animality that lied just below the surface of that gentlemanly demeanor. A wise man would have turned and left the cafe at that very moment. They would have forgotten the face of that man and done their best to forget the feeling of prey like inferiority.  Benjamin was neither a man nor wise. Ignoring the rules that had quietly been set forth he walked with purpose, his boot clad footfalls joining in with the tapping of a silver headed cane. Laying his hands on the counter several stools from the man in question Benjamin spoke. "I'll have the usual, darlin'." His rumbling voice seemed almost deafening in that odd atmosphere despite his even tone. The waitress cast Benjamin what he assumed to be a look of warning as she busied herself pouring him a cup of coffee. He ignored her silent pleas, flashing her only the slightest curve of his lips, a playful smirk as he took his coffee in hand. 

Again, Benjamin's steady footsteps returned to the forefront of audibility. They joined the taps, providing a steady accompaniment. It was short lived as the young man took a seat one stool away from a figure who looked very much his opposite. One was young, pale of complexion with nary a scary, but a wide assortments of etchings placed upon his skin, a brute really. The other, dusky and rather well traveled, a gentleman if anyone had ever laid eyes on one. The brutish youth lifted his coffee cup to his lips, reveling in the heat of the liquid before deigning to speak. "The coffee here is actually pretty good. Isn't the stuff that every chain coffee house and hipster cafe are trying to shove down the throats of the masses. It's nice and simple with a certain subtly to it. Something I don't think too many people can appreciate anymore." He shifted his soft brown eyes to the side, his head continuing to point straight. "I think it's the only reason I actually come here. No offense." he said, momentarily trying to draw the waitress into the conversation. She suddenly found the plate in her hand to be incredibly dirty, scrubbing at it with her apron as she ducked in to the kitchen. Benjamin exhaled roughly, possibly the closest thing to a laugh that the diner had heard since the mysterious stranger had come calling. Donning his most pleasant smile the bearded man turned to look directly upon the features of the other. "Sorry to disturb you with my prattling. I have an awful habit of trying to strike up conversation with new comers. Please, let me know if I'm bothering you. I'm sure I can coax one of these fine truck driving fellows into a conversation if need be." A spark of curiosity had ignited within Benjamin and the desire to shed the skin of humanity was consumed by it. The creature that sat beside him was much more interesting than sitting in quiet introspection.

@ignacio

[Deleted]

The beat of the cane did not alter with the addition of footsteps. Like it's master, if was not easily swayed or influenced by outside forces. It continued instead as though in utter isolation from the things around it. Ignacio himself didn't even look at the source of the footsteps for more than a brief glance, a quick sweep of appraising black eyes before he attention seemed to rove elsewhere. His posture didn't change, still caught somewhere between regimented dignity and the effortless sort of grace of a man who seems to believe he belongs everywhere. Ignacio has spent enough time being a stranger that he does not find it worth his time to get caught up in it.

His attention does not truly waver from the newcomer though. Rather he continues to listen to the thud of footfalls. As he comes close, the nostrils of his hooks nose flare with a breath drawn in slowly and deeply. Tasted. Tested. Most, even with keener senses, may not have understood the subtle layers of scent there. Old alcohol, soap, and something darker. Something he hadn't smelled in a very long time. Then he begins to speak and Ignacio listens to the cadence of his voice, the rolling sound of it, not truly concerned with the shallow meaning. The walking stick abruptly stills. His hand slides down the shaft to the mid point and with a graceful, practiced movement he lays the dark wood across his knees.

His craggy face tilts towards the demon in a manner reminiscent of a curious bird, dark eyes gleaming cold. The corners of his eyes crinkles with some quiet humor, his thin lips curled into a polite smile, one predator to another. He has a fondness for demons, it cannot be helped.

"Please, you need ask no forgiveness." Again the strange comingling of accents, so mixed that the individual geographic influences are difficult to place. He lifts the coffee cup to his lips is if in response to the glowing endorsement. He does not really taste the strong, bitter liquid. Instead he feels the heat of it coat the inside of his mouth and wash down his throat. There is a faint aching of true thirst, triggered by the sudden wash of heat, but it is quiet, well sated. Ignacio does not deny himself.

"I have not seen one of your kin in many years." He speaks bluntly, for one of the old ones, as though the smoke and mirrors is tiresome. He understands that the demon knows what he is (and if he didn't, there really isn't any reason for him to hide it). Despite his history with it, Ignacio did not live in fear of being hunted. His was confident- thus far he had survived the efforts of some of the best and he had survived. Thus would he always survive.

"What brings you to this quaint place?"

ABADDON

[ABADDON]

"It's been a long time since I've run across an individual that knew of my kin. We've been gone for so long that most think that we're little more than myths.  We prefer it that way though. Makes our work that much simpler. " There was little need to hide behind false pretense anymore. Abaddon had been seen for his true nature and so, as he had originally intended, he let the skin of Benjamin Colfax slip away. For the first time since he'd walked into the town of Brookings was he truly donned his own. The features of the youth shifted, his lids lulled half shut, the infectious grin fading to a thin line, and his gaze growing distant. His entire appearance had altered without a physical change overcoming him. With a blase light cast upon him Abaddon looked utterly disinterested as if nothing in the world was could quell the everlasting ennui. 

"Killing time,"

Simple words that meant little to the casual listener. Their true meaning hung heavily between the two. A sort of joke that Abaddon had made in earnest. He allowed the comment to linger before expounding upon it. "If your speaking of the Last Chance here I like to come here to think. Ponder the meaning of mortality, wonder at what constitutes the human soul, philosophize eternity, and like I said, they offer up a decent cup of coffee." Abaddon lifted his cup to his lips to emphasize his point. There really wasn't a need for his consumption of the black liquid. It held no benefits for him besides a bitter taste that he had grown to enjoy over a long existence. It was an indulgence that he often partook of, but there weren't many of those that he didn't. "If you mean Brookings," he began his statement from behind the cup, looking into his reflection in the dark brown mixture. "That's a much longer explanation. The short of it being that I'm taking a sabbatical and decided that this would be a nice vacation spot. The inhabitants here are rather interesting.  Well," Abaddon looked to the silent patrons of the Last Chance Diner, "Most of them can be. What of you? What brings you to this charming establishment? I'm assuming it doesn't have anything to do with the coffee." Abaddon held onto his cup but was no longer starting at his reflection. A single brow was raised, his expression displaying an emotion other than apathy since he'd been discovered.

Children of the night weren't terribly uncommon, but this one had a distinct feeling to him. Those of age had a way of recognizing it in others. Abaddon could feel that the being beside him was ancient. Much older than any other vampire he'd happened across, but Abaddon couldn't place his age by feeling alone. Another mystery was added to the air about the man one that Abaddon hungered to have answered. He could have simplified the process. Reached out and rooted around his mind. That would have been poor manners on Abaddon's part and a gross violation of privacy. While the daemon found it hard to fear any creature he knew that this one's ilk was not the likes to be trifled with. Manners and civility were paramount in this dealing. "I suppose it would be proper of me to give you my name. Most of the inhabitants here call me Benjamin. A pseudonym for my stay in colder climates."

@ignacio

[Deleted]

"Not for as long as you'd think." He bows his head over his mug, peering into the dark contents with a slight smirk. "From my limited understanding, your kin are not always free with their information, especially to their brothers and sisters."

And he recalls white skin and black eyes, hair like water reflecting a moonless sky falling long. He cannot recall the last time she spoke to him, and he does not offer up her name nor the fact that he knew one of Abaddon's kin. Undoubtedly the knowledge showed, but he would not offer up much information on his past freely. She is his not-so-secret patron, or was. He does not know where she is but he is serene, secure in the knowledge that when she recalls him she will return, if only for a short time.

He does not laugh at the joke- it isn't a good one, but it is not precisely bad. So he listens politely as the demon drawls. Nor does he answer the questions immediately. He considers, head turning so he again watches the demon. There is something about him that seems used to power that he is no longer invested with. He does not know much of hell, but it seems strange to him that a demon would be so concerned with the mundane.

"I am interested in a plot of land not far from here- I have my eye on some good horse stock." Funny thing, this mundane purpose was nothing but truth. Unlike the demon though, he was born human. Human life was something he would always desire to be a part of. In truth he did not actually consider himself separate from them. Only different. And older.

He would have taken much offense to anyone trifling with his mind- and it had happened before, so he was not entirely unguarded against it. As a vampire he had some abilities to manipulate the mind himself and he would take great exception to anyone trying to invade his. Also it would have been monumentally rude. He offers one slightly gnarled hand to the demon when introductions are made, another tight-lipped smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "My name at this time is Ignacio."

Perhaps one day, if they spoke again, he would mention the names that had followed him through the ages. His titles as Moranna's champion were more lasting than any names he took in human civilization.

ABADDON

[ABADDON]

"Something of an understatement," Nothing in Hell came without paying a price, not even casual conversation. Daemons had a way of simply talking in circles, conversing for hours without truly saying anything. It was one of the irksome qualities that had made Abaddon's decision to flee Hell that much easier. Knowledge came so much freer in the human world. Their minds unguarded, every surface thought echoing around Abaddon, their deeper thoughts easily extracted with only the slightest effort. Abaddon could hear every disconcerted thought from the other men and women in the Last Chance simply by opening up his mind. "I'm fairly certain the term 'do ut des' started because of my people. Always talking in riddles, expecting to gleam some sort of information from a slip of the tongue. They can never just converse for the sake of conversing. I think that's one of the reason I find the company of humans to be more bearable."

Abaddon was not particularly surprised by the lack of a reaction from the vampire. Abaddon was usually the only one who found his jokes funny and it often made him suspicious whenever anyone actually laughed at them. What had surprised him was the ordinary response that he'd received. "Horses, not a subject I'm particularly well versed in. Most animals tend to shy away from me whenever I come near. They see me for what I am far more often than the humans. I'm actually amazed that you've found a way to work with them. Judging by the current atmosphere I can only assume that you inspire the same sort of reaction from most creatures." About the only animals that favored Abaddon were those that creeped, crawled, and feasted upon dead flesh. Much like his brother, Beelzebub, who had an affinity for flies Abaddon seemed to get on greatly with locusts. So well that it had been documented several times by the humans. "I might be interested in learning more on the subject, maybe even riding one someday." Abaddon knew of many humans who were enchanted by the creatures and he sought to see what they saw. This seemed his best venue to make that whim come true, seeing as the vampire must have had some similar trouble with animals and might know how Abaddon could acclimate himself to them. 

Abaddon took the proffered hand and responded with a single firm shake. Despite the vampire holding onto the cup of coffee his hands were fiendishly cold. Perhaps it was just Abaddon, most had often told him that he felt feverish nearly all the time. It was a common feature of most daemons, along with the glowing red eyes, and the smell that accompanied them. Abaddon did what he could to hide the latter two traits with contacts and a mixture of cologne and chain smoking, but the former was harder to hide. "A pleasure, Ignacio," Abaddon practically sang the name, his tongue rolling over every syllable. "They certainly don't make names like that any more." Abaddon always seemed to like names that had roots in Latin. He wondered if the name was an apt description of the man beside him. As they sat the man seemed the perfect picture of serenity. Perhaps there was a fire inside him, something low that smoldered until he deemed it appropriate to let it roar to life. It was an interesting thought. "It's a much better name then Benjamin, infinitely better than my last moniker, Walther." Abaddon's face screwed up in disgust as he recalled the name he'd used as he'd traversed the nineteenth century.  "When you're trying to keep a low profile I suppose plain names are the way to go." Abaddon took another sip of his black brew as he contemplated what other names he might want to use in the future. Something a bit more elegant, but still relatively easy to forget. 

"If you don't mind me asking," Abaddon began, hoping to move the conversation forward. "How long do you intend to stay in Brookings?" It was a question asked with no ulterior motive, simply curiosity on the daemon's part.

@ignacio

[Deleted]

"It sounds to me as though you have been around the wrong horses, or spent too little time with them." There was genuine warmth in Ignacio's voice and he leaned forward a bit. Passion stoked a sort of intensity in him that had shifted somewhat away from predatory but left him no less dangerous. "I have worked with horses all of my life, since before I can truly remember. They are incredibly willing creatures. You need only be patient."

He smiled, his fingers tapping on the counter top, coffee forgotten by his elbow as he turned in his seat to more fully face his companion. "The breed I intend to import is a rare one in the new world. It is said that they spawned from the mating of nightmares to mortal stallions. A Greek breed, swift and strong. I've worked with them before though I understand they have become quite rare. I've been in contact though and secured a good stud, a mare, and a mare with child. I need only to prepare proper facilities."

Ignacio did not flinch from the heat of Abaddon's hand. No reaction broke his careful composure though the fire of passion had cracked it slightly. Inwardly he savored the heat, but he did not allow his hand to linger in the grasp. He was not yet ready to go hunting, and demons certainly were not really on his menu. There was only room for one demon in his life, regardless of the centuries that had gone by since he had seen her. Too he brushed over the talk of names- they were temporary, ephemeral things. Titles- nay, ideas were what an immortal could carry with them through the ages. It did not matter what name Ignacio carried.

"Hmm? Until I am run out, I suppose. I have a desire to put down roots for a time." He gave a one shouldered, enigmatic shrug but his smile had turned into a smirk that was almost rogueish. As if to say 'let them try'.

ABADDON