he was starting to regret standing about for as long as he had.
finn wasn't an idiot, nor was he blind; the pressing weight of stares lingered like ash in the air, his own twisted outward towards the waves that lapped idly against his boots. boots. . . perhaps that is why they stared ? the surf that surrounded portum hung in both mist and misery āā none of which was accustomed to the vampire. he was far used to the ragged splintering of grey water against sorrowful shores. the beaches of his homeland, if they could be called such, were far from peaceful. . . and finn found that he preferred it that way. loud, all-encompassing, and blinding to the memory. things were far too quiet, far too. . . dwelling. like the ghosts that drifted through the streets, lingering long after dark. it sent a shiver up his spine, though he hadn't felt other than cold in nigh a century.
fingertips traced the rim of his beer in an idle, pragmatic fashion āā was it too late for him to depart ? to slip away as he always did when things became too loud, too real ? he'd shared thin-lipped pleasantries with coworkers and acquaintances, dodged the common probing that seemed to haunt him worse than most did, though it was the distant wane of hunger that at last trailed upon his attention, creeping beneath the sinews of his throat. when was the last time he had fed. . .
a shift in the air. a scent. one he can't quite place. . . but familiar, as most were since his arrival. it calls upon his attention worse than the mutterings of those at his back. silver eyes follow the shape in the dark like a needle in a haystack āā until the hardened brow of a man whose name he hadn't bothered to remember, slips into view.
finn's head cants slightly, grip on the bottle steeling at the realization that rudeness, quite often not in his repertoire, may be his only saving grace. he draws out the silence between them by drawing the drink to his lips, gaze flicking outward at the inky black of the ocean's crest. ' aye, 'spose so. ain't been much of a fan with kids to know it. ' he murmurs around the rim, irish lilt heavy on his tongue. he steals a second, short-lived glance in the man's direction, the steady realization that he wasn't going anywhere hanging heavy on his brow. ' 'm not one to do much thinkin'. just enjoyin' the night 's all. ' it was a lie, of course, as finn often thought too much and not enough at all. a pregnant pause lingers between them both before he's clearing his throat softly, glancing up and over his shoulder towards the stranger āā but were they really ? ' 'n yerself ? ' he inquires in a more practiced, pointed tone.
