Three days later. Office of Regnac Blayde. Commander. SotF.
It was that time once again. Application week. The week when all the weirdoes and the nutcases, the screwed in the head and the downright raving lunatics came crawling out of the cupboard to knock on the door looking for an interview. Not that Blayde particularly minded the interview process as, for the most part, it served to remind him of just how lucky he really was in his life. Most of the folk that called to his office in the hopes of joining ‘Sins’sat firmly on the side of the fence labelled ‘fruitcake.’
Neverthless, he had a job to do and would strive to do it as best as he possibly could.
He sat behind his desk, papers stacked neatly off to the left, fingers clasped together, staring at the door and waiting for the inevitable knock that would herald the arrival of a certified freak. He didn't have to wait long as the sound of knuckles gently rapping on oak lurched him out of his reverie.
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a long, deep breath, before pushing his chair back, standing up and walking slowly to the door.
His face was grim as he gripped the handle, turned it and pulled open the door a crack, half expecting to be confronted by a costume wearing freak trying to join up with the Anger division or some prone slave desperate to join the ranks of those sickos in the Sloth division. But nope, his eyes elighted on a short old man, dressed in an old fashioned black suit.
The man looked up at him, eyes of palest blue staring intently, bushy gray moustache being pulled about and chewed on by his lower jaw. His swept back hair made him look as though he had just stepped out of the way of a giant fan, all sticking up and pointing backwards. In his left hand, he grasped the handle of an old doctors bag, large-ish in size, and closed with an impressively polished brass clasp. "May I come in Mr. Blood?" He asked, in a quiet, distinct voice, with the trace of a European accent.
"That's Blayde, Mr...?" He stepped back slightly, pulling the door open for the man to enter.
Helsing... Sedgewick Von Helsing." Hefting his bag, he stepped over the threshold, raising a gray eyebrow in dramatic fashion as he entered the office and looked at Blayde.
Giving the door a slight push, Reg headed back to his desk and resumed his seat, gesturing for the man to sit down as well, which he did, holding his bag in his lap. The door quietly clicked shut behind them.
"Would you like a drink, Mr Helsing?" Blayde gestured at the glass fronted drinks cabinet that sat against the right wall.
"No. Thank you. I never imbibe when on a quest, Mr Blood." Helsing flared an eyebrow at the Commander, a serious expression settling onto his face.
Nodding and leaning forward onto his desk, Blayde looked at the little man and spoke in a quiet voice. "How can I help you Mr. Helsing?" A garlic bulb flew through the air and bounced from his forehead with a soft, pulpy impact just as he finished speaking.
The little man looked up and rummaged through his now open bag. "Your resistance to garlic is phenomenal Mr. Blood. But that is merely the first of the tests of a true undead!"
Sitting back in his chair, and touching his finger to the spot where the clove had struck, Reg looked perplexed. "That's Blayde... Regnac Blayde. What tests? What undead are you talking about?" He watched the little man fumble and shove things around inside his bag, all the while casting furtive glances up at him.
Helsing narrowed his expression, like he'd just been hit in the face with a bag of salt, and grinned in a knowing manner, winking profusely with his left eye. "Very coy, Mr. blood... but I'm fully prepared to wait here until the sun comes up, in order to rid the world of the plague you have caused!"
