Doyle was running late, as always.  Or how did the line go?  'Doyle is never late.  He always arrives right when he means to.'  It could never be more true about the Cainite; he seemed to have unimaginable luck when it came to timing.  Tonight, however, was a little of both...<br/><br/>The step-child of the Sabbat in Cardinal, Doyle, emerged from the shadows a block from the Brewery.  He wiped at the corners of his mouth, checking the handkerchief for blood.  Satisfied at the sight of clean cloth he pushed his knit-cap down a little more and hunkered his shoulders.  Your stereotypical thug strut was the gait he used to move onto the Brewery.  He'd check his watch and note the time which would cause him to stop.  "Fucking bulllshit meetings."  He pulled out a banged up pack of Lucky Strikes; how he wished he could actually have nicotine again.  Flipping it onto his lower lip he produced a flameless lighter and cherried the end of the cigarette.  He pushed his back up against the building wall and waited, looking up to the starless sky as he enjoyed the smoke.  "Let the kids get their kicks in first, I s'pose.  Show up mid-intros and we should be golden.  Bloody Bishops."  He mumbled to himself.<br/><br/>Doyle often dressed in an urban fashion, like a type of camouflage.  Hoodies and sweatshirts, tees and wifebeaters, loose jeans, chains, work boots where all a part of the armor he wore out in the kine nightlife.  He looked the part of 1950's mobster crossed with an Aryan Brotherhood inmate.