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As much fun as bopping around in the east wing of the mansion while "working" was, Skoll had begun to feel like maybe hanging out with his dad all night wasn't exactly the coolest way to spend his New Years. And while there had been no shortage of attractive vampires who beckoned him to join them on the dance floor, the Gangrel fledgeling found himself all too often awkwardly dismissing the advances, either by stammering out excuses or by outright ignoring them while his cheeks and neck slowly began to feel warmer and warmer.

Participating in some drinking with Odin and some of the other pound puppies milling about had also felt like a good idea at the time, but before long he felt his brain swimming as a pleasant buzz took over his thoughts. But with that buzz came a longing, and with that longing came the masterful idea that, instead of doing his job patrolling and keeping an eye out for any trouble, he should instead see if he could join Rex at the front door, and maybe see if he needed...help. Ya. Rex probably definitely needed help. Besides, Odin totally had things under control here, right? And he was pretty sure he'd seen the Sheriff wandering around too, and that guy had the uncanny ability to sense trouble and diffuse it with just a look and a few choice words.

And so, when his dad was preoccupied with something happening on the dance floor, Skoll slipped away, and made his way back toward the main entrance. On his way, he found a discarded mask laying on the floor, one of the plain ones that resembled those that were being handed out at the front door. Not wanting to get caught slacking off, he decided it would be a good idea ot slip it on, securing it in place, the dark silk ribbon obscured by thick, shaggy hair.

Before long, he'd made it back to the entrance, spotting from behind the tall and broad vampire he had been seeking, mismatched eyes gliding over that muscular frame, his mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. Why had he thought this was a good idea? What if Rex just found his interupption annoying and childish and told him to go away? Skoll could feel a whine of uncertanity building up in the back of his throat that he tried to repress, teeth biting down on his lip ring as he considered scurrying away and back to the east wing.

For the most part the evening so far had been mildly uneventful. Oh, there had been a few party goers he had to turn away because they were not donning masks as was required out of refusal. That had been greatly pressed upon him that this criteria was crucial. While he himself was not required such things. Which he was grateful for. A couple times he did have to leave his post, swap out real quick with another one of the Pound Puppies, to help handle some unruly guests every now and again. His size and strength an easy deterrent once the vampires in question saw him coming. He was built like his father after all.

It wasn’t lost on him that his own brother, who wasn’t an official member of the gang, was in attendance. He’d recognize Hunter’s scent anywhere. And Rex knew exactly why he was here. All the Pound Puppies had been deployed for this event and Griffiin, of course, was also here. He was a source of focus for his brother as of late as well as his brother for his best friend.

But then….he too had taken a keen interest in Griffin’s own brother, Skoll, as well. That evening they had spent together breaking s**t in that building and the moments after lived rent free in his mind. It was a night of many firsts. He knew Skoll was here, working with Odin as his brother was likely with Gramsci. And while he would have liked nothing more than to go find him, sniff him out, he had a job to do. Watching the front door was one of the more important jobs that evening and he didn’t want to ******** it up.

Even if it was hard not to let his mind wander to what Skoll might be doing. Likely dancing the night away, being oogled by any number of vampires there in the East Wing. Surely any number of dance partners begging for a chance to dance with him, get up close and personal in that space. How could he not be? He was attractive, something about the way his eyes glowed and reflected the light was enticing. Those lips he had sampled already warm and inviting. That body…

No, no. He needed to focus. He had to stop letting his mind wander.

Standing there with his back to the open door, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest, his two toned eyes hidden beneath a fringe of orange with a singular white stripe. He tried to focus on those coming and going.

His nose twitched though as a familiar scent hit it and a rush of heat pooled in his lower belly. He’d know that scent anywhere. It had lingered on his skin and clothes long after he and Skoll had parted ways that night. Turning his body halfway, his gaze continued on towards the direction it came. That unmistakable form came into view donning a mask of his own and he couldn’t help the lopsided grin that parted his lips. “Ya lost? Pretty sure th’ party is back that way, sir.” His voice, ever deep, rumbled in his chest with amusement.

So it was to be a party tonight after all. For a long time his Disciple had waffled over whether or not he would attend. Stopping to turn around the moment he had stepped out the door only for Roman to gruffly shove him back out, forcing him to stick to his decision. He had so finely dressed for the evening and what a waste it would have been to miss out on any and all sorts of drama that might occur with so many vampires of so many different clans in attendance.

But he also knew, the probability of conflict for Colmillo was likely stalking about. And so…the Antediluvian had accompanied him. Losing his signature hat and blue jeans for a white linen suit, sleeves rolled up exposing his muscled, furry forearms. The jacket unbuttoned with no shirt beneath, normally he had little care for covering up his upper torso but perhaps his exquisite form would be a bit too much for the general rabble. Dark fur around his throat trailed down into a fine line of dark hair that trailed beneath the waistline of his pants. A swirling pattern of rose tattoos on his arms and chest visible to any who looked his way. Replacing his usual snake skin boots with a set of white, dark hair slicked back from his face that was hidden behind an intricate mask. Though there was no mistaking the golden glow of his eyes behind it for anything but supernatural.

He had been aware, since his rebirth into this life of the undead at the hands of his Disciple that their bloodline was one not quite so…..welcome. Though understandable given their origins but in his heart of hearts he believed it was their own loss. And while he much preferred the open terrain to the city, it was not his first time in one, nor did he believe it would even be his last.

Following behind Colmillo his gaze swept about the foyer. A low whistle passing through his lips as he slipped his large hands into the pockets of his pants. “Santa mierda.” Well, wasn’t this fancy? Long ears twitched at the cacophony of noise while his nose wrinkled slightly at the assault of scents that reached him and he almost choked as they hit the back of his throat. “A estos idiotas les gusta bañarse en sus perfumes.” Before he knew it Colmillo was off once again, stalking through the crowd with a curious look in those deep purple eyes. Letting out a deep sigh Roman followed, keeping a keen eye on the other vampire in case trouble broke out.

And he was sure it would if a certain someone was about. He did have a nose for these things.

Hunter was, thankfully, a hunter at heart. He was a mix of his parents, and while he was a bit more feline in nature and personality, he did inherit a few things from his father — particularly, a keen nose. Though there were all sorts of scents he could focus on at this part, some of them far more interesting (and in some cases repulsive) than others, there was only one he was looking for.

Ah-ha!

Navigating the crowds was no problem. Once in a while he caught sight of an individual that had clearly had a run in with Griffin, or at least had been close enough to be painted with his scent. But as he approached the East Wing of the home, he could tell the scent was thicker, richer. Someone had only just arrived — perhaps he was meant to roam the room? Take over bouncing out any trouble?

If Hunter had to get into a little trouble to get Griffin’s attention, he absolutely would. He was fearless, after all… and while he might not be part of the Gang, he could still go down fighting.

So it was, the puppycat soon found the source of his interest, leaning over the bar. His eyes glowed in delight — maybe he was here for a drink? Better and better, if so! — before he sidled right up next to him, pointedly allowing himself to brush right up against him. He could always blame the crowd.

“Well, now — if you’re not the most delicious piece of art in this entire mansion,” he complimented with a purr. It wouldn’t be difficult to guess who was behind that tiger mask — but he could pretend this wasn’t his brother’s bestie. “Gonna get me a drink, handsome?” He asked, leaning in just a bit closer. Let this pound puppy get a nice look at hims up close….

Hunter wasn’t shy.

Another year, another party, and Benny was no closer to pleasing Ambrogino than he had this very night a year ago. That wasn’t, of course, for lack of trying. Though he hadn’t been able to get the information he needed from Ashrad, Benny had known better than to return to Ambrogino empty handed.

No, he needed to get him something and he would.

Short of going to Grendel himself, he would keep no stone unturned. He had been his loyal and faithful lackey for years, and every year, he fought, bled, starved, begged, killed, and stole for him; and every year, he hoped to find himself closer to one little crumb of approval, of validation, of recognition. One small, tiny, thing…. Something to keep him going. Something to possess as his own. And yet….

Deep down, Benny knew it was likely a hopeless cause. He was a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot, and he knew that the Antediluvian would likely never look his way twice, lest it was to order him around, or rebuke him for failure. And yet… Benedict was a broken creature, shoe stubborn, mangy spirit had latched on to the only way to make his unlife worthwhile. Like the kicked dog that still eagerly followed his master, so did Benny lick at Ambrogino’s heals. Maybe, if he did enough, he would get a kind word… Maybe, if he got him what he needed, he would be seen for who he was.

He’d give the vampire the world if he could, and at present, this mission he was one felt like it was almost as difficult.

But if anyone would have information, if he could get anyone to talk, maybe someone here would be of use to Ambrogino’s cause. This was a rare opportunity to pick up rumors, catch wind of leads, and potentially find new contacts. It would get him closer to vampires he otherwise might never find….so it behooved him to be there.

He was, thankfully, a nobody.

A rat.

A flea on the rat.

An amoeba on the flea on the rat.

He was nothing, which meant he might be able to roam through the bodies and rooms with an ear to the ground. He wore his usual garb, finding no reason to dress up. But he did sport the mask of what appeared to be that of a jackal. How appropriate. Maybe, if luck were on his side, he’d find something to get him back in Ambrogino’s good graces. As if there were ever a real opportunity for that…. Pink eyes drifted over the vampires as they passed, and he moved carefully on the outskirts where he could. Sometimes he slipped through a crowd, and his deep, cold scowl kept any nosy neonate or fledgling from bothering him.

He wasn’t here for them.

Please, Grendel willing, let him stumble upon a breakthrough.

The Noiad Disciple had been here a whole. Moving from bar to bar, one after the other. Grabbing drinks before moving onto the next. Being here, amongst all these other vampires made the large Noiad’s skin itch. The longer he spent here amongst them the more and more he wished to head straight back to his snowy, mountainous home where the rest of his kin dwelled. Where the icy air nipped at your skin, the warmth of blazing fires warmed you to your bones, where the silence was so still and absolute because the world around you was blanketed by the heavy snowfall that absorbed all sound.

He longed to feel the crunch of snow and ice beneath his large boots. And curl up beneath a pile of furs with another warm body.

Leaving another one of the bars he glanced around. The drinks weren’t quite strong enough to get more than a small buzz going. But then for one as large and massive as the Noiad Disciple was, it took much more than a few drinks to make him tipsy where others might fall flat in their faces.

Icy blue eyes swept across the room, taking in the newest arrivals until they locked in a familiar dark figure donning, almost amusingly, a wolf skull mask. The bitter scent of wolf lingering in the air around him was unmistakable. How ironic that they would both attend wearing wolf masks. But oh, there was no mistaking the Dead Wolf Disciple. Their grudges spanned centuries, ran deep within them both. Abominations in his very eyes and certainly not worthy of the grand status of being an official clan in his own opinion.

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he rumbled a low grunt in the back of his throat as he watched the furred vampire stall through the crowd with laser focus. His lip curled back from his upper teeth behind his white wolf mask. Noting the other large male that trailed behind Colmillo, like a dog in it’s masters heels.

As the pair drew ever closer he shifted, large antlers tilting slightly as he gave the other Disciple a brief once over, sizing him up. “Visste ikke at de slapp lopperidde blandinger inn i festen.” He grumbled low to himself, his voice deep like rolling thunder in the distance.

To say Espen was not pleased to see the Dead Wolves Disciple was an understatement.

The God could not help the smirk that pulled up a corner of his mouth at the Ravnos Disciple’s words, holding his goblet closer to himself as if to protect it and its contents…though at the moment, the contents were questionable at best. “Perhaps if I held a grudge against the host, I might do such a thing. I am confident, however, that doing so would be disastrous.” Still, he also found it amusing to think about. Often, he wondered what Mithras had done with the bottle of God’s wine he had traded Grendel for. He assumed it was for use against some enemy or part of a practical joke. Either way, he was sure the results would have been quite interesting and possibly hilarious. He thought he might ask if he happened to see the Ventrue at the party tonight.

Those thoughts flew out the window only seconds later. Now, his evening was more likely to be spent keeping his beloved wrangled and preoccupied…not that the Deity was unwilling by any means, though this was an inopportune time for such distractions. Though he knew it was the drink talking more than Ravnos himself, Grendel could not help but feel mildly alarmed. He could tell that using his powers to try to dull Ravnos’s rising need was not working, and his gaze shot around them to anyone else who may be nearby, lest the Disciple’s lust-filled desires turn toward other individuals who were not the God. “Dracian…” He kept his tone low and hushed, and even then, and he moved closer toward him again as he posed against the bar top. “Are you saying you will not wait for me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you…threatening to find somebody else unless I go with you now?” He followed the question with another, moving in so close their bodies were practically touching, as he slid the vampire's drink further down the bar lest he be tempted to take another drink from it.

That hand gliding up his arm did little to soothe the storm that was beginning to rise inside him. He again had to remind himself it was the drink. Just the damned drink. And just as he’d decided he would need to find somewhere private to appease his partners desires, a figure approached the two of them.

Instinctively, he felt a flash of irritation inside of him, his lip curling back from his teeth as he readied to tell whoever it was to leave them be, but that urge died within half a second when he realized just who it was.

The Deity heaved a sigh as he broke his gaze away from Dracian and turned it toward Apollo, his “God-Father” of sorts. Despite the current circumstances, he let a wry smile tug up the corner of his mouth, his red gaze flashing bright. “Apollo.” His voice sounded deep and low, always like a roll of thunder. “I can not take credit for the party. The Toreador that hosts it has outdone himself once again. Though I imagine your presence is creating quite a stir…even if they do not quite know who you are.” Indeed, the other Deity’s very essence still gave off the feeling of sunshine that most vampires feared. It was a wonder there weren’t hordes of the undead running and hiding at that very moment.

And then his gaze shot to Ravnos as he moved away toward Apollo, the embers of his eyes burning brighter, as for a brief moment, he felt his teeth clench. Reaching one clawed hand out to wrap around the Disciple’s arm, he gently attempted to pull him back against his chest. “You’ll have to excuse this one. He can not handle his Incubus blood.”