It had been a rather tiring day for the young looking man known as Ivy. He did not quite leave his dwellings often, for today had been the first time in what would be around two and a half months..to his knowledge anyways. He was not quite the best at keeping track of time when he did not have a clock to keep it with.

Although nobody could quite keep time, could they? time was a fickle and slippery thing that seemed to always screw you over. It was not something you could hold or something that you could control, it was ever flowing and ever fucking people over.

One of those people was Ivy.

The man had been brought out of an episode by a knock upon his door, the simple thump having drawn him from an emotionless, dreamless state. He had ventured outside, only to be realise that there wasn't actually anybody there. Did it happen to have been stray debris or was it some random entities way of drawing him out? he had pledged himself to a few different goddesses over the years to be honest.

He had wandered the town of Morgan Heights and greeted a few people, most of whom did not know him, and some various animals. He had checked on his mother and younger sister before finally heading out.

Ivy had grabbed a few bottles of rum, they were the only remainders from his moonshine phase during the 1700's, and left the town, not wanting his family to witness his semi-monthly ritual of getting drunk enough to kill a lesser man and gorging. He usually stayed inside of his dwellings during this period but had decided that he would rather wander today, he was out of his house after all.

Ivy would regret this as he stumbled into an unknown building a few hours later, probably around one or two in the morning, with tears dripping down his face and an emptiness that had not left him. He'd sniff a few times and wipe his runny nose with the sleeve of his shirt, not really caring about the general mess that he was right now.

His shorts and sweater were caked with mud and what appeared to be a reddish substance, most likely blood but it was impossible to tell if it was his or not. He left a dirty trail of footprints down the aisles, squinting as the products on the shelf through bleary eyes, unable to discern what he was really looking at.
The familiar red square of the cheez-its made itself known to Ivy and a lazy smile appeared upon his lips, although he was still, very obviously, crying.

It was but a few moments later that he found himself curled into a ball on the ground, a few types of cheese products around him. Cheez-its were absolutely everywhere, crushed and just spread around with what appeared to be an odd goldfish cracker or two in the mix, and a large, more than half empty, bag of shredded cheese poked out of the dirty man-ball that he currently was.

He was obviously still crying pretty heavily while eating, for the only clean part of him seemed to be the tear streaks down his face. He'd have to stop eating every now and then because he was simply crying too hard.

You could not really tell what he looked like through the grime, although his ears were a bit too pointed if you looked closely and his teeth seemed to be a bit too sharp when under inspection. He appeared to be wearing a very, very dirty pair of grey sport shorts and a dark blue sweater with a concerning amount of blood staining it. His ankle length hair was matted and absolutely filthy, containing chunks of food, what appeared to be some leaves and twigs, some congealed blood and a whole bunch of who-knows-what.

He was an absolutely pitiful sight to look upon and he had eaten quite a lot of food already, despite the pain that he was in due to the fact that he was actually lactose intolerant, and was not going to stop until he passed out.. slightly unlikely due to what seemed to be an empty six-pack of redbull a few feet away from him.

Poor Ivy.

[this was very bad, don't feel the need to match the length]

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The borders of San Creado sat in indistinct lines, snaking horizontally from a definite point where the sign bearing the town's name had been hammered into the ground, SAN CREADO spray painted over faded words no longer distinct. Patrols allegedly strolled throughout the town, monitoring the unfamiliar faces and passively registering those that came to stay - one wouldn't know as a tourist, but likely neither would Rialto unless they crossed directly, because if there was any duty he was held accountable for he hasn't been keeping track of it. Were there patrols? He'd entirely forgotten. It had been years since he accepted responsibility for anything.

That was probably supposed to evoke some sense of unease, given the fact that should there actually be no patrols at all (which there most likely were on account of Marko's discreet attempts at nailing down order, so, counterfactual thinking: pointless wondering about what ifs), whoever went in and out would be wholly unhindered. Someone could just come and burn the whole place down if they wanted to. They'd be flocked by vampires in moments, and probably pinned to the front of the Ferris wheel to be decorated by acrylic paint by Rialto and further bullied by Alex plus Marko going for their eyes meanwhile Cat never even stopped reading a book in her bathtub, but the principle was there.

Someone could just stumble in through a drunken stupor, crash into the minimart, while crying, and upend a few packets of Cheez-Its to scarf down with their cheek melded into the grimy, daily-trodden tile. You never knew. Someone just could.

Once the sun dipped, Rialto - on one of the days he left his merchandise at home/carriage - and Alex weaved through the town's dirtier alleys, both likely with no thoughts at all centred around San Creado's questionable defenses, delightfully cooking up nasty schemes or whatever else they did on Fridays. Something about how staying in the dark dark made them vampires feel real spooky and vampiric, and at any rate the crescendo of their voices once they habitually got Started (re: arguing. About nothing. Shouting normally, pulling hair optional, throwing things fortnightly) was better left restricted to quieter areas. Today's bonding time was thankfully less rambunctious and ultimately they sauntered together into the minimart for prime munches.

One didn't need to step into the store further than about a meter to see that, trademark. The owner at the counter didn't bat an eye. No eyes batting, only on the field. Was the owner conscious? Blink twice for yes.

Rialto eyed the sobbing ball of filth with dismay, and instinctively backed up a step. It wasn't that he would be able to tell if his grody flip-flops got any dirtier, but self-preservation was the knee-jerk reaction when you came across a massive Cheez-It explosion.

In all his concern the blood sodas snuck fast out of his mind.

He looked down at the can of Red Bull he'd knocked over in his retreat. At the sheer amount of hair. Leg. Flash of little teeth. Rialto sniffed, and - keeping in mind that Rialto was someone who didn't find it necessary to shower for days so long as he wasn't intentionally meeting anyone, and he would gleefully shoot watermelon seeds from his mouth at people that crossed him, mainly Cat - promptly pinched his nose. His hand flailed for Alex's shoulder, then decisively made to push them in front of him. Please. He insists.

"Have you paid for that yet?" Rialto asked. His eyes then found the cheese as he was trying not to breathe too much in the same direction, nose still pinched. "...All of that?"

© MADI