08-04-2018, 10:20 AM
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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?"
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
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