there are far, far worse things to be than a monster

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost and Hamilton Fish
What: Just going out for a bite to eat, ha ha ha. :(
Where: Spatters, naturally.
When: Shundi, bloody Shundi, evening.
Warnings: Violence, gore, NPC death, vampiring...

The hour is late, but not so much that Deacon Frost will be cutting it too fine by the time dawn rears its ugly fucking head, nor has he eaten yet. The cigarette he has dwindled down to half its length does not, as with people, stave off his hunger; when you only require one thing to survive, it's really the only thing you particularly crave. Which isn't to say he doesn't like the sensation of smoking coursing through his lungs. It certainly isn't going to kill him.

He doesn't look like he belongs here, in his nice leather jacket, the gold band and gemstone decorating a finger, his designer watch, and that's alright. No one walks among the Spatters, investigating disappearances and murders, asking if they saw anything unusual.

At least, no one Deacon doesn't think he can't handle.

He sits on a stone stoop leading into one of the many squatters' boarding places, arms rested upon his knees and boots set against the pavement, the most movement being the run off of smoke from cigarette end as he studies the opposite sets of buildings across the street. There are more open hunting grounds, too, tent cities and shanty towns, homeless denizens cowering beneath bridges or whatever structure of shelter they can secure and claim for themselves to last out what happens to be a very cold evening. As a result, the street before him is empty, even devoid of the usual monster bait of someone hurrying home. It's too cold, too late, and too poor a neighbourhood for that sort of thing; anyone with sense is indoors.

And this is perfectly acceptable.

Comments

[fish]

Yeah, yeah. Fish grins against the leather collar before his retreat; it's gone by the time his face is again visible. He doesn't linger there any longer than would be considered friendly—this isn't a suggestive move, only a whim—but does feather his hand down the length of one sleeve on its way toward a try at stealing the cigarette from Deacon's hand. His fingers are still cool, their touch light.

Whether or not he comes away with a reward, Fish steps backward into the beginning of a turn, either lifts his hand for an easy drag or doesn't, and maybe breathes smoke as he says, "Thanks." And then drifts off down the street, clearing the next curb with a little hop.

[fuckin_thirsty]

Deacon sort of tilts a cynical look down the length of his arm as Fish's hand creeps, and-- now he doesn't have a cigarette. His fingers splay in a sort of wry resignation, standing side on and watching as Fish takes his leave, smoke trailing after him. There's no you're welcome, mostly because it seems unnecessary.

Christ, is the sentiment behind a shake of his head. He turns, once more, to go.