Post by Scratch on Dec 8, 2013 21:06:29 GMT
It is, predictably, the dead of night.
The canopy of the clear late autumn sky is at its peak overhead, the world beneath lit softly by the glowing face of the full moon and its myriad collection of companion stars. It should be beautiful, crisp and clean, but the solitary figure on the street far below has no mind for the brilliance above him. He walks, nestled into the thick and layered fabric of a woolen overcoat, with enough confidence to suggest there is nothing strange about the hour; that though townsfolk and locals would not recognize him, he is perfectly at home. It has been centuries, after all, since the night sky held any true meaning for the man – or the suspicions of humans caused him any concern.
The perpetual rise and fall of both the constellations and humanity ceased capturing his interest long ago.
More important than some ephemeral and romantic view of the heavens is his destination, the goal that has dragged him out of well-worn haunts and deposited him in this godforsaken stretch of country. Even the season’s bitter chill has not kept him away, billowing out the tails of his coat and wicking up the legs of his pants; there is a scarf wound about his neck, a pair of fine classes perched on the bridge of his nose, and a dangerously determined look in his golden eyes. This night is the culmination of research and planning, two things the man has not felt the motivation for in recent months, and he resists the inevitable tug of hope and expectation. Even the thrill of anticipation is stymied and quelled, replaced instead by a stark coldness that is matched by the temperature outside.
Were anyone on the street at this hour they would avoid him instinctively, sidestepping without thought like wary deer from a wolf. He is glad for the silence, for the emptiness that echoes with only the sound of his neat leather boots, and for the recent warmth in his gut that allows his breath to trail behind him in a fine mist. The slender man has always preferred handling negotiations – particularly with strangers – on a full stomach. The consequence of restraining his temper otherwise, should things go sour, has irreparably damaged too many deals in the past.
Let it never be said that he cannot learn; it simply has to be worth his while.
The object of his search at last manifests out of the night, a matching of numbers to memory that takes no more than a single cursory glance. He reaches up to rap soundly upon the door, the pull of his sleeve revealing the watch about his wrist, and settles back on his heels to wait with a patience learned through decades. Too long a pause will be met with a louder knock, insistent, until the house’s occupant at last sees fit to unlatch the lock.
What the wizard within will find outside is a sharp-dressed man with no plans to leave, and a boot slid surreptitiously forward to prevent the door from slamming in his face. A brief meeting of eyes, a short study of the homeowner’s face, and the stranger will butt in before there is any chance for pesky questions. Humans, he is well aware, so often despise being woken up at this time of night – but it is an irritation he gladly inflicts upon them.
”My name is Lucian,” the golden-eyed man begins, dipping his chin just so to manage an almost innocuous air. ”I apologize for the hour, but I have some business to discuss with you.” It is important to sound urgent without sounding desperate – to emphasize that it must be discussed now without saying so outright. The man’s lofty accent helps his cause, but so too does a lifetime’s worth of practice.
It is then that the small smile cannot be kept from his face, the expression that at first seems inviting but manages to toe some predatory line towards hunger. The vampire has never been particularly good at hiding his nature, and there is always some brief buzz felt at the simplistic nature of this con. His hand slides up the smooth wood of the door, and he leans forward, waiting.
”May I come in?”
The canopy of the clear late autumn sky is at its peak overhead, the world beneath lit softly by the glowing face of the full moon and its myriad collection of companion stars. It should be beautiful, crisp and clean, but the solitary figure on the street far below has no mind for the brilliance above him. He walks, nestled into the thick and layered fabric of a woolen overcoat, with enough confidence to suggest there is nothing strange about the hour; that though townsfolk and locals would not recognize him, he is perfectly at home. It has been centuries, after all, since the night sky held any true meaning for the man – or the suspicions of humans caused him any concern.
The perpetual rise and fall of both the constellations and humanity ceased capturing his interest long ago.
More important than some ephemeral and romantic view of the heavens is his destination, the goal that has dragged him out of well-worn haunts and deposited him in this godforsaken stretch of country. Even the season’s bitter chill has not kept him away, billowing out the tails of his coat and wicking up the legs of his pants; there is a scarf wound about his neck, a pair of fine classes perched on the bridge of his nose, and a dangerously determined look in his golden eyes. This night is the culmination of research and planning, two things the man has not felt the motivation for in recent months, and he resists the inevitable tug of hope and expectation. Even the thrill of anticipation is stymied and quelled, replaced instead by a stark coldness that is matched by the temperature outside.
Were anyone on the street at this hour they would avoid him instinctively, sidestepping without thought like wary deer from a wolf. He is glad for the silence, for the emptiness that echoes with only the sound of his neat leather boots, and for the recent warmth in his gut that allows his breath to trail behind him in a fine mist. The slender man has always preferred handling negotiations – particularly with strangers – on a full stomach. The consequence of restraining his temper otherwise, should things go sour, has irreparably damaged too many deals in the past.
Let it never be said that he cannot learn; it simply has to be worth his while.
The object of his search at last manifests out of the night, a matching of numbers to memory that takes no more than a single cursory glance. He reaches up to rap soundly upon the door, the pull of his sleeve revealing the watch about his wrist, and settles back on his heels to wait with a patience learned through decades. Too long a pause will be met with a louder knock, insistent, until the house’s occupant at last sees fit to unlatch the lock.
What the wizard within will find outside is a sharp-dressed man with no plans to leave, and a boot slid surreptitiously forward to prevent the door from slamming in his face. A brief meeting of eyes, a short study of the homeowner’s face, and the stranger will butt in before there is any chance for pesky questions. Humans, he is well aware, so often despise being woken up at this time of night – but it is an irritation he gladly inflicts upon them.
”My name is Lucian,” the golden-eyed man begins, dipping his chin just so to manage an almost innocuous air. ”I apologize for the hour, but I have some business to discuss with you.” It is important to sound urgent without sounding desperate – to emphasize that it must be discussed now without saying so outright. The man’s lofty accent helps his cause, but so too does a lifetime’s worth of practice.
It is then that the small smile cannot be kept from his face, the expression that at first seems inviting but manages to toe some predatory line towards hunger. The vampire has never been particularly good at hiding his nature, and there is always some brief buzz felt at the simplistic nature of this con. His hand slides up the smooth wood of the door, and he leans forward, waiting.
”May I come in?”