08-21-2018, 07:17 AM
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Rialto's fingers felt at the edges of the paper, smoothing out the hasty sticky-taping job with little avail; the transparent material was already creased. A crease disrupted his forehead as he pored over the missing poster, in itself slapped together just as hastily. They didn't have a noticeboard or intercoms positioned around San Creado - news travelled, as vampires old enough to have moss grow on them would be familiar with, by word of mouth, and in writing. Frantic whispers feeding the nightlife's strangeness, spritzes of spray paint appearing often around town - primarily nothing more than single words, or cryptic symbols. It all came from the need to communicate.
He fancied himself a master of design, but there was no critique leaving him as the vampire squinted at the picture, a blurry IG selfie not meant to be examined for longer than five minutes, grit in the picture evident after every pixel turned to ink. Rialto read the name and maybe thought, the times he'd traipsed around this town without the intention to sell, doing nothing but listen and watch and fix his enormous sunglasses, he'd seen this person himself - a flash of his face in Rialto's peripheral, some guttural yell of his name from one of his friends while they were spilling from the doors of the diner, his shadow intermingled with others.
Rialto didn't feed from tourists. For one, tracking someone to feed on was actually much more exhaustion than he liked, and even if tourists came and went Rialto somehow found himself faced with a total disconnect from want. Hunger was a painful ache, a burn, and knocked impolitely at his door by way of kicking it down and grabbing him by the collar like a money-laundering landlord, yet he was easily appeased. Or just lazy. Nowadays he hadn't sunken his teeth into anything other than red gummies; blood sodas were like his water.
They didn't have to kill when they ate, but feeling the pulse of life through blood hitting the arteries, the gush of it once he bit down akin to popping an egg yolk, thrust someone's life so uncomfortably in his hands that Rialto now couldn't help wanting to let go and squirm. He abstained from it entirely.
The posters won't do anything in this town, hanging silently on the walls. It's not as though they have a law system, and it was bound to be pasted over with something else. Decisive, Rialto tore it straight off the telephone pole and rolled it up to shove half of it in the waistband of his sweats.
He wasn't entirely surprised to see Zachariah on the beach while winding back to his carriage, seeing as he could smell him from a long way off, but Rialto highly preferred not to - a solid reason why he tried not to breathe too much around him. He knew decay, because it wasn't a stretch of the mind to realise that a vampire had killed, but he didn't like it. All he saw was a wrinkly, wet ball of paper drifting back, ink starting to bleed vaguely through the page but too soggy to see. Rialto didn't focus on it, politely refraining from pinching his nose but not from breathing through his mouth instead, fingers drumming absently on the roll by his side, and commented, half-seriously, "Oh, a message in a bottle."
He fancied himself a master of design, but there was no critique leaving him as the vampire squinted at the picture, a blurry IG selfie not meant to be examined for longer than five minutes, grit in the picture evident after every pixel turned to ink. Rialto read the name and maybe thought, the times he'd traipsed around this town without the intention to sell, doing nothing but listen and watch and fix his enormous sunglasses, he'd seen this person himself - a flash of his face in Rialto's peripheral, some guttural yell of his name from one of his friends while they were spilling from the doors of the diner, his shadow intermingled with others.
Rialto didn't feed from tourists. For one, tracking someone to feed on was actually much more exhaustion than he liked, and even if tourists came and went Rialto somehow found himself faced with a total disconnect from want. Hunger was a painful ache, a burn, and knocked impolitely at his door by way of kicking it down and grabbing him by the collar like a money-laundering landlord, yet he was easily appeased. Or just lazy. Nowadays he hadn't sunken his teeth into anything other than red gummies; blood sodas were like his water.
They didn't have to kill when they ate, but feeling the pulse of life through blood hitting the arteries, the gush of it once he bit down akin to popping an egg yolk, thrust someone's life so uncomfortably in his hands that Rialto now couldn't help wanting to let go and squirm. He abstained from it entirely.
The posters won't do anything in this town, hanging silently on the walls. It's not as though they have a law system, and it was bound to be pasted over with something else. Decisive, Rialto tore it straight off the telephone pole and rolled it up to shove half of it in the waistband of his sweats.
He wasn't entirely surprised to see Zachariah on the beach while winding back to his carriage, seeing as he could smell him from a long way off, but Rialto highly preferred not to - a solid reason why he tried not to breathe too much around him. He knew decay, because it wasn't a stretch of the mind to realise that a vampire had killed, but he didn't like it. All he saw was a wrinkly, wet ball of paper drifting back, ink starting to bleed vaguely through the page but too soggy to see. Rialto didn't focus on it, politely refraining from pinching his nose but not from breathing through his mouth instead, fingers drumming absently on the roll by his side, and commented, half-seriously, "Oh, a message in a bottle."
© MADI
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