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

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.

Threaded | Flat

Given that he has taken on the role of monster bait more often than he'd care to admit, Fish would be indoors too, this evening, had he not been summoned out here. He was still in his pyjamas when Deacon called, actually—hope you enjoyed the spectacle of his bed-head, sir—but it did not take long to get himself ready. Having clothes already set aside cut the time down significantly.
...What, so he gave it some thought. When you have a limited wardrobe, it isn't easy to find a balance between this looks good on me and I don't give a shit if blood gets all over it. That and he's done the deliberate apathy version of staring at the phone since this idea was first mentioned.

This rotten, beastly idea. This idea that should make him feel guilty for even considering, but doesn't. It really doesn't. He's pretty sure.

Fish had considered this while doing the usual camera-mirror-screen setup dance so as to apply liner without sticking the pencil in his eye. He's been doing that more often, lately. The eyeliner thing. Just smeared around, usually, unless he's going out. And so, the big question: why get prettied up to go murder somebody? It's sick, probably. But it's not the first time he's done it. Granted, those few times did not involve quite this much premeditation, but they still count.

And so, when Fish rolls up to the decided meeting place, freshly showered and brushed and smelling clean, in his tight jeans and layered shirts, and his coat with the hood, and those leather boots with the few buckles that he loves, all blacks and greys and milky palor, he's feeling pretty okay about it.
Nervous as hell, but okay. For the time being.

His approach seems casual, at least.

no subject