<span style="font-size: 10px"><br/>
Under a canopy of overcast, the city welcomed her by ushering her through an oppressive shroud of humidity best associated with coming rain. Ziggy sniffed the air, an expression of disquiet tugging her features. The cigarette between her fingers was borrowed, the filter half-chewed by someone else’s teeth. Valesport never changed. Quiet nights were just as troublesome as loud ones, the split of the sky sending a nervous shudder through the concrete beneath her wingtips, hinting at <i>something</i> nearby. The woman used the quaking means to track a vein to the pulse of the reverberations, inevitably she was idling just outside the doors of the One Night Stand.<br/>
<br/>
Typical.<br/>
<br/>
Awkwardly, her left eye throbbed from the pressure, half-obscured behind a flop of bubblegum pink hair. She flicked her cigarette as a wash of disdain did it’s best to bubble to the surface. She could make an effort to avoid <i>it</i>, whatever <i>it</i> might be, but it brought up thoughts of Errol, and some tender place in her heart was met with static resolve to see <b>this</b> through. <b>This</b>, she reasoned, was something fucky. <b>This</b>, she understood, was going to be a problem if left unchecked. <b>This</b>, she promised, was only a problem until she showed up.<br/>
<br/>
No harm in scopin’ the joint.<br/>
<br/>
The door opened as it would in an old horror movie, groaning on ancient hinges until it knocked a whisper of wood kissing wood. Ziggy followed. A small thing, she was, with a frame easily hidden beneath the folds of her white zoot suit. Her shock of coral locks fought to stay contained within the boundaries of their prison; a fedora in matching white. Black accents flattered the outfit, buttons to pocket square to the inlays of her wingtips. A bit of dark to ease the appearance of too much white after labor day. Or was it before?<br/>
<br/>
Ziggy wasn’t sure.<br/>
<br/>
She fingered a few pocketed trinkets as she walked up, shooting the various women of the bar glances before she settled two seats down from the only male present. Pathetic sort of thing, he was. Ziggy smelled it on him. Death. More than death, it was the struggle to avoid true death. Most spectral sorts had that stench wafting from them but she wasn’t an expert so she didn’t realize the distinction between Ghoul, Vamp, and Poltergeist. Strigoi? Her nose wrinkled.<br/>
<br/>
Errol was behind the bar but her extent of acknowledgment for the two was a nod. Ziggy didn’t take it personally. The funeral did a number on Errol. Ending up with a diet coke, she left the bartender to bartending and swung one leg over the other atop her stool perch.<br/>
<br/>
“You look like one’a those old plastic bags ya see on the highway. Always in a state’a disrepair but goin’ somewhere. Gets me thinkin’ about where the hell you might’a blown in from. Better yet- where ya headin’?” Her voice was a whip crack of Bronx-esque spitfire, strung together tight and fast.<br/>
<br/>
“Also, ain’ too positive ya realized, bub, but ya stink.”</span><br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="7082" data-username="@Lurktastic" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/7082/">@Lurktastic</a>