Gemini
Bazinga.
Of course he wasn't hunting it had barely been . . .
This is a bad idea.
How long was it now?
He watched the scene as he lounged across several long since forgotten chairs, his legs crossed bent at the knees, his finger swirling above him in time and in sync with the music that 'played'; the daywalker's predicament. He had never heard something so ridicuous until he had met these 'daywalkers'. They were so prone to human compassion, to much time spent playing with their food.
Even humans, the second most advanced civilization on the planet had its winners and losers.
The night-owls raced about the town and indulge, securely in the bulge of life’s belly. They swarmed to the places full of sound and light like street demons and smile as they drink and feed, satisfied. They don’t want to know the underground life-farce their waste supports for they irritate and pester, ruining their nice cosy lives, a constant reminder of the imperfections of their society.
This is a bad idea, Iiokl.
Hungry, dirty, living not by wit, these wastrels were no longer seen because they are as common as buses, just as much a part of the city furniture as they make palaces of tube stations; short on rations bedding down on stone, cold tile, hard wood, cardboard, rags. Begging, apologizing as they roam aimlessly and smelly not really expecting the price of a cup of tea as, covered in street dirt, their homeless hands root through filled bins.
They were the losers, a waste of flesh and bone with eyes full of loss and pain, a face sad, lost. Each cadaver a ghost, dismissed by their fellow man . . . they were so dull, barely begged for life . . such a waste of packaging. Iiokl tutted, closing eyes briefly as he cut off the 'music', finger ceasing it's movement to wag up and down in silent scold; but this was not about his opinion but about her... His eyes opened shifting back to the two daywalkers; one of the vampiric communities losers.
This is a bad idea.
I know
But Vincent . . .
Pushing upright he moved across the the room, pinching the skin of the thralls neck, the nail of his thumb easily cutting at the flesh.
This is a bad idea.
She was no better than the scraps, worse, the leftovers. But even with such a small incision, the scent of blood upon his tongue made his mouth water nonetheless, and he fought to ignore the burning of his throat as he leaned close inhaling the intoxicating scent beneath the skin before roughly pushing the bloodpack away toward the girl.
"You should eat." He intoned, concerned.
She wanted it. He'd seen the look. Knew that look. It was one he was familiar. As for the thrall, he knew a stockholm/victim when he saw one. He couldn't even be bothered with her. None of that mattered to him though. Not really. He simply wanted to see the daywalkers expression.
That was a bad idea, Iiokl.
I know.
But Vincent.
Will be grateful if she eats?
And if she doesn't? He smiled. Oh well.
This is a bad idea.
How long was it now?
He watched the scene as he lounged across several long since forgotten chairs, his legs crossed bent at the knees, his finger swirling above him in time and in sync with the music that 'played'; the daywalker's predicament. He had never heard something so ridicuous until he had met these 'daywalkers'. They were so prone to human compassion, to much time spent playing with their food.
Even humans, the second most advanced civilization on the planet had its winners and losers.
The night-owls raced about the town and indulge, securely in the bulge of life’s belly. They swarmed to the places full of sound and light like street demons and smile as they drink and feed, satisfied. They don’t want to know the underground life-farce their waste supports for they irritate and pester, ruining their nice cosy lives, a constant reminder of the imperfections of their society.
This is a bad idea, Iiokl.
Hungry, dirty, living not by wit, these wastrels were no longer seen because they are as common as buses, just as much a part of the city furniture as they make palaces of tube stations; short on rations bedding down on stone, cold tile, hard wood, cardboard, rags. Begging, apologizing as they roam aimlessly and smelly not really expecting the price of a cup of tea as, covered in street dirt, their homeless hands root through filled bins.
They were the losers, a waste of flesh and bone with eyes full of loss and pain, a face sad, lost. Each cadaver a ghost, dismissed by their fellow man . . . they were so dull, barely begged for life . . such a waste of packaging. Iiokl tutted, closing eyes briefly as he cut off the 'music', finger ceasing it's movement to wag up and down in silent scold; but this was not about his opinion but about her... His eyes opened shifting back to the two daywalkers; one of the vampiric communities losers.
This is a bad idea.
I know
But Vincent . . .
Pushing upright he moved across the the room, pinching the skin of the thralls neck, the nail of his thumb easily cutting at the flesh.
This is a bad idea.
She was no better than the scraps, worse, the leftovers. But even with such a small incision, the scent of blood upon his tongue made his mouth water nonetheless, and he fought to ignore the burning of his throat as he leaned close inhaling the intoxicating scent beneath the skin before roughly pushing the bloodpack away toward the girl.
"You should eat." He intoned, concerned.
She wanted it. He'd seen the look. Knew that look. It was one he was familiar. As for the thrall, he knew a stockholm/victim when he saw one. He couldn't even be bothered with her. None of that mattered to him though. Not really. He simply wanted to see the daywalkers expression.
That was a bad idea, Iiokl.
I know.
But Vincent.
Will be grateful if she eats?
And if she doesn't? He smiled. Oh well.