Marcus paced back and forth in his living room, pausing every once in a while to check and make sure Deacon had cleaned as thoroughly as instructed. Indeed, it seemed he had done so. Marcus was pondering…what was he doing back in Willow Creek, really? perhaps it was to see if he’d improves as much as his sire hoped. To be sure, he wasn’t going to go out seeking Jett – neither was he going to go out of his way to avoid him, should the situation arise.
Things certainly seemed to have changed, though he wasn’t entirely certain it was for the better. Not many new people in town, but from what he’d been able to determine by siphoning through the news of the past few months was that things had been…interesting. Mostly, he’d learned, it seemed to center largely around this Winchester family, of whose patron he’d taken a liking to, though he couldn’t ascertain why just then.
A part of him toyed with showing up at the next poker gathering, however, he felt that it might be premature at this time. Still, it was an appealing thought. He sighed. He had precious few allies here, if any at all remained. He couldn’t afford to screw things up again. Kass had even advised him not to come back, suggesting he go to Europe for a century or so, and leave Willow Creek behind. he had a very ‘been there, done that’ opinion of Europe at present – Marcus, that is; not Kass.
Should things get too out of hand, he’d just calmly leave, he decided. It was better than a fight – though should a fight come, he wasn’t sure he’d even attempt to fight back. He was old, and he was tired, at time. Perhaps torpor somewhere was the better option after all. He licked his lips a moment and went to the kitchen, pulling down a bottle of his reserves. The blood of the kine was hit or miss when it came to sustaining him anymore – sometimes it did, and sometimes it did not. He guessed that, perhaps, he was sliding into what was known as Methuselah’s thirst. He surmised that he’d have to be careful how he went about getting Kindred blood.
Were it any other city, he’d take the dregs and embrace them, then drain them dry. It was the safest way to be rid of them, and not be enslaved by the blood bond at the same time. He could hardly do that here – everyone would be on his case if he did. He made a mental note to import as he poured the vitae into a glass, drank, and filled again.
His thoughts turned once again to the Winchester patriarch he’d met first at the hospital, wondering if perhaps his talents were wasted under Petra. Not to say that Petra wasn’t capable – but really, what was she offering him? He supposed he could ask, but that seemed forward. Besides, it was rude to cause a grievance like that, especially when she held a position of power within the city.
He shook his head and drank a third glass before corking the bottle and rinsing the glass out. Soon enough it would be dawn and he would slumber, but until then he was going to read. He headed into the living room and selected a book, then sat to read, though his mind was not focused on the words before him, but instead drifted off into thoughts of the past – his past, specifically. Like he had many times before in the recent months, he could see his faults – where he’d made the more crucial mistakes. It was something he would have to live with, and try not to relive.
Though he supposed if he got bored enough it might be a bit fun to poke the sole false Brujah in the city, and see what happened. The thought made him smile, and after he was able to focus on the words in front of him.