‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻ Bruce Wayne ༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Dress

c. 1879

Satin, trimmed with applied beading, chenille tassels, needle lace, lined with cotton, whaleboned

England

On any night, Gotham was a town that flourished beneath the stars; the city itself was a growing presence in the eastern front of the United States, and with the rise of the oil industry, a city run on the work of the smaller man, like Gotham, was thriving. During the day, Gotham was busied by the employed out in the streets and within their respective establishments— factories ran tirelessly from before the sun rose to long after it fell with men, women, and children of a wide range of ages working their bodies to a failing; construction of newer buildings and repairs of older ones were in full swing, made safer by the light of the sun and maintained, for the most part, during the daytime hours with the threat of the still-adjusting unions hanging over their employers heads. Gotham was a place of work during the day, but at night, when the men hung their hats and changed their suits, the women picked their best evening gowns, and the children laid down to sleep, the city came to life in a way the sun could never imagine.

It was on a cool, late summer night that Bruce found himself in the private carriage Alfred had insisted on him taking, the exterior a sleek black afforded only by the large wealth he had inherited, and supported by his business ventures that continued to that day. The curtains over the windows were drawn to conceal his form inside.

“Comin’ up on the strip, master Wayne,” a young man’s voice—thick with what Bruce could only describe as a New Yorker accent—came from the coach box, following two sharp knocks to get Bruce’s attention before ever saying a word, “want me to stop ‘ere?”

“Yes,” Bruce’s voice lifted louder than it normally would, if only to be heard over the rattling of the carriage against the mud and cobble of the street below its wheels. It slowed only moments after, and Bruce took the opportunity to push open the door and step out, taking the step as a midway point before his black boots hit the mud and his long jacket was quick to follow. “Thank you,” he heard himself say, dropping his volume to something more natural for himself, “wait here until I return.” He added, lifting his gaze to the nod from the boy, not even a year younger than himself, before he turned and started down the street.

The walk was pleasant, if he had to pick something to enjoy. Bruce wasn’t entirely certain where he was going, nor was he sure what he would exactly do when he got there, but the instructions from his elder had been clear: talk to anyone at all and I’ll be pleased. He considered, briefly, trying to get away with having talked to the boy that drove the carriage, or the woman he passed during his walk he exchanged a brief hello with, but he decided the better of it and pressed on instead hoping for something to catch his eye. It was then, as if a prayer answered that he hadn’t even realized he’d made, nor wanted to make, he found himself abruptly stopping at the sound of a door to his left opening, drawing his pale eyes to the man crawling out from the chaos inside.

There was a moment of startle, accompanied naturally by a cautious, though subtle, step back away from the man as he crawled out. Gotham at night was a place of life not comparable to that of the day, but with life often came the very real threat of a very poor death. The papers did love to report on it, bar fights turned murders, muggings in the streets, assaults, pickpockets; the list of possibilities was endless and Bruce found his mind going through each and every one as he watched the other, meeting his eyes as they lifted. The words had caught him off guard, body lightly stiffening as he went still and his long coat sunk around him as though it were a protective cloak to defend him from any problems he might have. In a metaphorical sense, it likely was.

Wait. That was it.

That was why the face was so familiar...

John had seen the man before alright, in passing merely, when arms in arms with his friend, they'd bumped shoulder, exchanged a quick glance and shared apologetic nods. John had been in such high spirits back then, it hadn't truly registered, how mesmerizing the stranger's eyes had been. Shame he had such a cold patrician profile, clearly of high birth and just a little too eager to pass judgement. Oh he sported it well enough, but he seemed held up so tight that John couldn't help but wonder, what would loose look like on such a man? Was he even capable?

"Johnny?" The blond's eyes suddenly widened when he heard Melly's voice. Instinctively, he reached forward for the lapel of the dark haired man's coat, pulling him close as he spun the two of them around in an attempt to shroud himself in some of the darkness the other seemed so eager to wear, to inhabit. "Shhh." John let out, bringing a digit to his own mouth as the woman called, searching, hoping. A short expression akin to guilt passed on John's face, brows creasing as his gaze lowered a little, gone the cheekiness for something more serious, something more sober and somber.

When Melisandre's voice faded and the sound of her footsteps grew faint, the blond closed his eyes, indulging in an energical exhale through his nostrils before reopening his eyes, only now taking full notice of the proximity he'd induced. "Listen, I did not start the fight. I did not intend to fight at all, strewth." He spoke the naked truth. "Let's just say a poor girl got stuck in a bad situation and she bet on the wrong horse to take her away... I have very little to my name and have seldom been considered an added value to anyone's existence. There is also the fact that my... well, line of work let's say, requires of me to seek out all sorts of trouble, when they do not find me, that is. I did not... I, well, I might've lightly plucked at the strings of her heart, gently, of course." He declared, making use of the promity to keep his voice low, sultry, his nose moving to almost brush against Bruce's. The admission turned into some sort of seductive confession. For what reason? John wasn't certain. Perhaps the beer was getting to him, perhaps the stranger's allure was well-aiding. Perhaps he just needed someone to know him a little, even just for an evening. Even just the time of a conversation.

Bruce watched the shift in the blond’s expression, eyes closed then open again and it certainly didn’t take a genius to catch the look of guilt as it broke through the surface. He didn’t comment on that, though, instead listening quietly as Melisandre’s voice drifted off into the distance, slowly drowning in the sea of commotion inside the building before subsiding as the door closed once more, plunging the two of them into near silence except for the city around them. It could have been silence, though, standing there so closely it was as if everything else was drowning out around them. Bruce could hear his own heart beat, he’d swear by it, but the welcoming distraction of John’s voice breaking the otherwise quiet moment was a relief he neglected to express other than to briefly look away with only his eyes and exhale; body stiff.

“I see,” he murmured lightly, almost interrupting the other man’s words, but Bruce never spoke quite loudly enough to achieve that unintentionally and this moment was no different. Instead, the words served as a quiet confirmation that he was listening, eyes almost reluctantly focusing back on the other, meeting his gaze and hearing his words. Between the other’s tone and the admittance of the truth combined with the proximity, he found himself almost disarmed. Almost. “I’ve… met her before,” there was a hesitance to the words—when you speak to someone, stand still. You do not want to appear bored—the reminder echoed in his mind, and he resisted the urge to shift how he was standing, to fidget or to step back. “She’s nice; he isn’t.” 

Bruce let himself examine the blond’s face a moment before as the other released him, brows furrowing just slightly more before lifting instead, as if in realization.

Their shoulders bumped and Bruce had found himself briefly startled, body spinning lightly as the contact was made and there was a man, blond hair, joyfully drunk. There was eye contact for a moment, though only a moment as the other man nodded, Bruce nodded back, and in opposite directions they both made off.

The blond eventually did the polite thing, taking a step back and returning them both a semblance of private space. His own usage of it focusing on readjusting the capelet of his beige inverness cape coat, in an attempt to look more put together and properly buttoned the whole thing around his neck, hands disappearing in his pockets. Oh sure, beige wasn't exactly a discreet colour, but John had learnt a long time ago that discretion didn't have all that much to do with garments. That, and the coat was in fashion in England, so certainly less eye catching than on this side of the ocean.

The other man’s words snapped him quickly out of his thoughts, his own gaze returning to meet the blond’s, and he felt a heat rise to his face at the implications of what the other way saying, his brows lifting slightly whether in surprise or embarrassment that he quickly tried to correct. “That’s not—” He shifted where he stood, lifting a hand to run his fingers through the back of his own thick, black hair that was slicked down to hide the waves and match the more sleek, aristocratic look that was expected of him. The hand moved down to rub the back of his neck instead, then down in front of him where he clasped both hands together to keep from fidgeting. He took a breath in. ”—That’s not exactly what I, ah, meant… mostly,” he trailed, the last word coming off as more of a mumble than a real word, painfully aware of the redness in his own cheeks, in the tip of his nose. His gaze shifted to the side again, as if in silent admittance that the other’s observation was not exactly incorrect, either. “Though,” he began, clearing his throat lightly and training his eyes on the nearby lamp post, just past the blond, “it is not something I have been known to… not do.” He added, softly.

Ha un'espressione triste sul volto mhmhm

Close up under the cut

On any night, Gotham was a town that flourished beneath the stars; the city itself was a growing presence in the eastern front of the United States, and with the rise of the oil industry, a city run on the work of the smaller man, like Gotham, was thriving. During the day, Gotham was busied by the employed out in the streets and within their respective establishments— factories ran tirelessly from before the sun rose to long after it fell with men, women, and children of a wide range of ages working their bodies to a failing; construction of newer buildings and repairs of older ones were in full swing, made safer by the light of the sun and maintained, for the most part, during the daytime hours with the threat of the still-adjusting unions hanging over their employers heads. Gotham was a place of work during the day, but at night, when the men hung their hats and changed their suits, the women picked their best evening gowns, and the children laid down to sleep, the city came to life in a way the sun could never imagine.

It was on a cool, late summer night that Bruce found himself in the private carriage Alfred had insisted on him taking, the exterior a sleek black afforded only by the large wealth he had inherited, and supported by his business ventures that continued to that day. The curtains over the windows were drawn to conceal his form inside.

“Comin’ up on the strip, master Wayne,” a young man’s voice—thick with what Bruce could only describe as a New Yorker accent—came from the coach box, following two sharp knocks to get Bruce’s attention before ever saying a word, “want me to stop ‘ere?”

“Yes,” Bruce’s voice lifted louder than it normally would, if only to be heard over the rattling of the carriage against the mud and cobble of the street below its wheels. It slowed only moments after, and Bruce took the opportunity to push open the door and step out, taking the step as a midway point before his black boots hit the mud and his long jacket was quick to follow. “Thank you,” he heard himself say, dropping his volume to something more natural for himself, “wait here until I return.” He added, lifting his gaze to the nod from the boy, not even a year younger than himself, before he turned and started down the street.

The walk was pleasant, if he had to pick something to enjoy. Bruce wasn’t entirely certain where he was going, nor was he sure what he would exactly do when he got there, but the instructions from his elder had been clear: talk to anyone at all and I’ll be pleased. He considered, briefly, trying to get away with having talked to the boy that drove the carriage, or the woman he passed during his walk he exchanged a brief hello with, but he decided the better of it and pressed on instead hoping for something to catch his eye. It was then, as if a prayer answered that he hadn’t even realized he’d made, nor wanted to make, he found himself abruptly stopping at the sound of a door to his left opening, drawing his pale eyes to the man crawling out from the chaos inside.

There was a moment of startle, accompanied naturally by a cautious, though subtle, step back away from the man as he crawled out. Gotham at night was a place of life not comparable to that of the day, but with life often came the very real threat of a very poor death. The papers did love to report on it, bar fights turned murders, muggings in the streets, assaults, pickpockets; the list of possibilities was endless and Bruce found his mind going through each and every one as he watched the other, meeting his eyes as they lifted. The words had caught him off guard, body lightly stiffening as he went still and his long coat sunk around him as though it were a protective cloak to defend him from any problems he might have. In a metaphorical sense, it likely was.

Wait. That was it.

That was why the face was so familiar...

John had seen the man before alright, in passing merely, when arms in arms with his friend, they'd bumped shoulder, exchanged a quick glance and shared apologetic nods. John had been in such high spirits back then, it hadn't truly registered, how mesmerizing the stranger's eyes had been. Shame he had such a cold patrician profile, clearly of high birth and just a little too eager to pass judgement. Oh he sported it well enough, but he seemed held up so tight that John couldn't help but wonder, what would loose look like on such a man? Was he even capable?

"Johnny?" The blond's eyes suddenly widened when he heard Melly's voice. Instinctively, he reached forward for the lapel of the dark haired man's coat, pulling him close as he spun the two of them around in an attempt to shroud himself in some of the darkness the other seemed so eager to wear, to inhabit. "Shhh." John let out, bringing a digit to his own mouth as the woman called, searching, hoping. A short expression akin to guilt passed on John's face, brows creasing as his gaze lowered a little, gone the cheekiness for something more serious, something more sober and somber.

When Melisandre's voice faded and the sound of her footsteps grew faint, the blond closed his eyes, indulging in an energical exhale through his nostrils before reopening his eyes, only now taking full notice of the proximity he'd induced. "Listen, I did not start the fight. I did not intend to fight at all, strewth." He spoke the naked truth. "Let's just say a poor girl got stuck in a bad situation and she bet on the wrong horse to take her away... I have very little to my name and have seldom been considered an added value to anyone's existence. There is also the fact that my... well, line of work let's say, requires of me to seek out all sorts of trouble, when they do not find me, that is. I did not... I, well, I might've lightly plucked at the strings of her heart, gently, of course." He declared, making use of the promity to keep his voice low, sultry, his nose moving to almost brush against Bruce's. The admission turned into some sort of seductive confession. For what reason? John wasn't certain. Perhaps the beer was getting to him, perhaps the stranger's allure was well-aiding. Perhaps he just needed someone to know him a little, even just for an evening. Even just the time of a conversation.

Bruce watched the shift in the blond’s expression, eyes closed then open again and it certainly didn’t take a genius to catch the look of guilt as it broke through the surface. He didn’t comment on that, though, instead listening quietly as Melisandre’s voice drifted off into the distance, slowly drowning in the sea of commotion inside the building before subsiding as the door closed once more, plunging the two of them into near silence except for the city around them. It could have been silence, though, standing there so closely it was as if everything else was drowning out around them. Bruce could hear his own heart beat, he’d swear by it, but the welcoming distraction of John’s voice breaking the otherwise quiet moment was a relief he neglected to express other than to briefly look away with only his eyes and exhale; body stiff.

“I see,” he murmured lightly, almost interrupting the other man’s words, but Bruce never spoke quite loudly enough to achieve that unintentionally and this moment was no different. Instead, the words served as a quiet confirmation that he was listening, eyes almost reluctantly focusing back on the other, meeting his gaze and hearing his words. Between the other’s tone and the admittance of the truth combined with the proximity, he found himself almost disarmed. Almost. “I’ve… met her before,” there was a hesitance to the words—when you speak to someone, stand still. You do not want to appear bored—the reminder echoed in his mind, and he resisted the urge to shift how he was standing, to fidget or to step back. “She’s nice; he isn’t.” 

Bruce let himself examine the blond’s face a moment before as the other released him, brows furrowing just slightly more before lifting instead, as if in realization.

Their shoulders bumped and Bruce had found himself briefly startled, body spinning lightly as the contact was made and there was a man, blond hair, joyfully drunk. There was eye contact for a moment, though only a moment as the other man nodded, Bruce nodded back, and in opposite directions they both made off.

On any night, Gotham was a town that flourished beneath the stars; the city itself was a growing presence in the eastern front of the United States, and with the rise of the oil industry, a city run on the work of the smaller man, like Gotham, was thriving. During the day, Gotham was busied by the employed out in the streets and within their respective establishments— factories ran tirelessly from before the sun rose to long after it fell with men, women, and children of a wide range of ages working their bodies to a failing; construction of newer buildings and repairs of older ones were in full swing, made safer by the light of the sun and maintained, for the most part, during the daytime hours with the threat of the still-adjusting unions hanging over their employers heads. Gotham was a place of work during the day, but at night, when the men hung their hats and changed their suits, the women picked their best evening gowns, and the children laid down to sleep, the city came to life in a way the sun could never imagine.

It was on a cool, late summer night that Bruce found himself in the private carriage Alfred had insisted on him taking, the exterior a sleek black afforded only by the large wealth he had inherited, and supported by his business ventures that continued to that day. The curtains over the windows were drawn to conceal his form inside.

“Comin’ up on the strip, master Wayne,” a young man’s voice—thick with what Bruce could only describe as a New Yorker accent—came from the coach box, following two sharp knocks to get Bruce’s attention before ever saying a word, “want me to stop ‘ere?”

“Yes,” Bruce’s voice lifted louder than it normally would, if only to be heard over the rattling of the carriage against the mud and cobble of the street below its wheels. It slowed only moments after, and Bruce took the opportunity to push open the door and step out, taking the step as a midway point before his black boots hit the mud and his long jacket was quick to follow. “Thank you,” he heard himself say, dropping his volume to something more natural for himself, “wait here until I return.” He added, lifting his gaze to the nod from the boy, not even a year younger than himself, before he turned and started down the street.

The walk was pleasant, if he had to pick something to enjoy. Bruce wasn’t entirely certain where he was going, nor was he sure what he would exactly do when he got there, but the instructions from his elder had been clear: talk to anyone at all and I’ll be pleased. He considered, briefly, trying to get away with having talked to the boy that drove the carriage, or the woman he passed during his walk he exchanged a brief hello with, but he decided the better of it and pressed on instead hoping for something to catch his eye. It was then, as if a prayer answered that he hadn’t even realized he’d made, nor wanted to make, he found himself abruptly stopping at the sound of a door to his left opening, drawing his pale eyes to the man crawling out from the chaos inside.

There was a moment of startle, accompanied naturally by a cautious, though subtle, step back away from the man as he crawled out. Gotham at night was a place of life not comparable to that of the day, but with life often came the very real threat of a very poor death. The papers did love to report on it, bar fights turned murders, muggings in the streets, assaults, pickpockets; the list of possibilities was endless and Bruce found his mind going through each and every one as he watched the other, meeting his eyes as they lifted. The words had caught him off guard, body lightly stiffening as he went still and his long coat sunk around him as though it were a protective cloak to defend him from any problems he might have. In a metaphorical sense, it likely was.

After much more practice drawing men as well as the revival of my favorite anatomy building technique (silhouetting before I sketch) I am now redoing my reference for my vampire Bruce both pre and post vampirism heheh

@not-a-vamp-wayne

Full silhouettes I'm working off of below:

— John Cons♰antįne | Hellblazer | Constantine | The Vampire Hunter

Orphaned, titled-stripped former English Lord turned vampire hunter, just like his ancestors

Closed rp starter for: @not-a-vamp-wayne

The rain came down wrong.

That was the first thing Ilya understood when consciousness returned to him in pieces: not pain, location, or the shape of the street beneath his hand, but rain. It struck the brim of his hat in cold, uneven taps and slid down the back of his glove where his palm braced against soot-dark brick. It carried no chemical bite from asphalt, no oil-slick bloom from modern streets, no hot-metal ghost of engines idling at intersections. It smelled older. Dirtier. Horse sweat and coal smoke, wet wood and human waste, lamp oil thinning in puddles, the sour rot of a harbor city breathing through clogged lungs.

He remained still.

The alley around him was narrow, pressed between brick walls furred with damp. Somewhere overhead, a gutter choked and spilled in a steady, silver sheet onto broken crates below. His fingers flexed once against the wall. No wound, silver burn, or stake lodged between the ribs. Whatever had thrown him here had not left a mark his body cared to acknowledge, though his bones still held the fading memory of pressure, as if some great invisible hand had clenched around him and dragged him sideways through the dark.

Ilya lifted his head. Beyond the alley mouth, Gotham moved beneath gaslight. Not his Gotham. Not any city of his century.

The street was mud and cobblestone, rutted deep by wheels, shining black beneath the rain. Carriages rocked past with lanterns swinging from their sides, horses snorting steam into the cold as iron shoes struck sparks from stone. Men hurried beneath dark umbrellas or with collars raised against the weather, their coats cut too long, their hats too stiff, their boots carrying street filth up their hems. A woman in a bonnet stepped around a puddle and gathered her skirts with one gloved hand. A newsboy stood under an awning with damp papers hugged to his chest, his voice cracking as he shouted headlines into the wet evening.

Ilya listened, eyes half-lidded beneath the shadow of his hat. There were no engines. No electric hum buried in walls. No sirens folding through traffic. No aircraft above the cloud cover. The city made its noise with hooves, wheels, bells, shouting mouths, rainwater, and the creak of wood under strain. Every sound arrived naked, lacking the constant mechanical veil of the world he knew. It should have been quieter. It was not. It was merely honest about its filth.

A carriage passed close enough for the horse to toss its head toward the alley. The animal saw him before the driver did. Its ears went back. The whites of its eyes flashed in the dim light, and the driver cursed as the beast shied sideways, wheels slipping hard against the wet curb. Ilya did not move. He watched the horse fight the reins, watched the driver’s anger collapse into unease when his gaze found the pale, motionless man standing in the dark between buildings.

Some instincts survived domestication. Good.

He stepped out of the alley as if he had meant to be there all along. Rain struck his shoulders, beading along the dark wool of his overcoat. His suit beneath was not period-correct, though close enough in the right light: dark pinstripes, waistcoat, white shirt, polished shoes, a pocket watch chain that belonged to no present century he had ever trusted. The tailoring was too clean, too exact, too modern in the line of the shoulder, but wealth excused many sins. So did confidence. Men looked at him and then looked away, allowing their own minds to supply explanations. Foreigner. Aristocrat. Criminal. Mourner. Something with money enough not to be questioned.

Ilya crossed the street without waiting for permission from traffic. Another horse balked. Its driver spat a curse, then swallowed the rest when Ilya turned his head. The man’s face paled beneath his cap. His hand tightened on the reins until leather creaked.

The corner building drew Ilya’s attention because it wanted to. Three stories of dark brick and narrow windows, warm light pressed against rain-streaked glass, a painted sign swinging above the entrance in the wind. The Gilded Lily Hotel & Saloon. The lettering was gilded but chipped, trying for refinement and failing just enough to be useful. Men with money would enter through the front. Men without it would circle around to the back. Secrets would climb the stairs. Debts would settle in private rooms. Blood had been spilled there before; he could smell the old iron under the newer layers of smoke and perfume.

He went in. Heat rolled over him with the door’s opening, thick and unpleasant after the rain. The saloon was a crowded little furnace of bodies and wants. Gas lamps trembled inside glass globes along the walls, turning the smoke into amber fog. Cigar ash drifted beneath the pressed-tin ceiling. Wet wool steamed from men packed shoulder to shoulder at tables. Whiskey soured the air. Cheap perfume clung to women leaning too close to men pretending they were not lonely. A piano clattered in the corner, a bright, brittle tune that did nothing to soften the hunger in the room.

Conversation thinned when he crossed the threshold. It did not stop. Humans rarely admitted fear with such honesty. But it caught, snagging table by table as faces turned and then pretended not to. A card player forgot to draw. A woman’s laugh faded into the rim of her glass. The bartender’s hand paused midway through wiping down the counter. Ilya removed his hat and shook rain from the brim with one controlled motion, dark hair damp at the edges, pale face made colder by the warm gaslight.

The room told him what it was before any mouth opened.

Three exits. One staircase. A door behind the bar. Two armed men pretending to drink. One revolver under a gambler’s coat, poorly concealed. Knife in the boot of the man nearest the piano. A priest’s medal under the bartender’s shirt, warmed by skin but untouched by faith. Laudanum on the breath of the woman in green. Split knuckles at the far table. A broken tooth somewhere beneath the floorboards, not fresh. Blood dried into old wood near the stairs. Old fear in the walls.

Bruce Wayne

The name was hushed every time it was spoken, as if it would catch his attention if uttered too loud and he’d scurry back to whatever dark, lonely castle he kept himself locked up in. It was a weekly ritual, people really ought to have been used to him out by now, but his reappearance in society had shocked those who thought him dead, and shook everyone else who had thought worse. He paid it no mind, though, simply pulling the brim of his sleek black bowler hat down more to shield his eyes from the rain, and with a sharp turn that unintentionally allowed the wind to snag against his thick black coat that subsequently tried as hard as it could to blow away, he opened the doors to the saloon and made his refuge inside.

The Gilded Lily Hotel & Saloon had been Bruce’s safe haven from the world for two months now. Everything had turned upside down once when he was a boy, again when he was a young adult, and once more now, as he approached thirty, suddenly finding himself completely and utterly alone except for the staff at Wayne Manor, his guardian among them; he was ruined in the mind, ruined in the body, and ruined in the social spheres he once flourished in in his youth, whether he had truly enjoyed them or not. He was completely and utterly alone.

As he entered the Gilded Lily there was a delicate tightness to the air that threatened to snap as he crossed the threshold from the cold, wet Gotham streets into the warm and smoke inside. Again, no one spoke directly to him. He preferred it that way, really; it was why he came here, making his way now through the bustling crowd of drunk fools to the bar where he made his break.

“Wayne,” came the stiff voice of the man behind the counter, his weathered face turning in Bruce’s direction, the dark haired man not meeting his eyes. “The usual?”

“Yes, thank you.” Bruce heard himself say as he slipped off his coat and hooked it over his left arm with his hat, though his own words felt distant and uninvolved with himself, like he was merely watching someone else speak them for him. He made no indication of discomfort, though, used to the experience by now. He simply placed the money lightly on the counter, extra to suffice as tip both for the service and for the discretion, and accepted the glass as it was handed to him. From there, he navigated his way quietly to the back of the room where he found a seat at a lone, two-person table and merely watched as he sipped.

It was as he was settling into his seat and his weekly ritual of watching and listening, pretending to be involved without ever truly engaging at all, that he saw the door to the saloon open from across the way, fixating his pale, glassy blue eyes on the man who entered only a moment after. He didn’t feel the same shift in the air that others in the bar had seemed to, but the subtle heaviness that filled the air from everyone else he’d come to know by body language and face told him everything he needed to know. Stay away from the man in the doorway. He intended to do just that, shifting where he sat so instead of facing the room he was facing the table instead, and he sipped lightly on his drink to put his focus elsewhere; to draw as little attention as possible.

- cold to the touch

- Paler than humans

- Heightened senses (smell, hearing, sight mainly)

- Sunlight burns

- Sensitivity to silver

- Fast healing unless sunburn or silver

- Likely immortal

- Hematophagy, human only. Animal is disgusting.

- sedative in fangs

- Must every 3-4 of days, but it’s healthier to maintain a regular diet.

- Eyes appear normal, maybe colder than a humans, but depending how hungry why are their eyes are red.

- Fang length and size varies across vampires, Ilya’s are pretty average.

- Retractable fangs.

- Bites take weeks to heal completely on humans. Depending how rough, there may be a permanent mark.

- Decapitation would work to kill them. But wounds from silver would do fine.

Oliver Queen waited patiently on the stone steps to the manor house his family owned. He was stood straight as a soldier, but only half as a stern. He was in good spirits all things considered.

Only back among the living for..what was it now? Two weeks. Yes, two weeks that’s right. He’d been so busy he’d nearly forgot how little time he’d been back

The nighttime breeze picked up, moonlight bathing the gated yard in tranquil light. Crickets chirped and morning larks slept, a peaceful night it was.

As he waited Oliver pondered on why his old friend had insisted on meeting after dark. Was it not best to meet during the day when the sun is warm and world in cheery spirits? He should think so at least.

But this was not the only point of curiousity, the name signed..Bruce..Oliver did not know that name, he hadn’t been in town long enough to hear the latest goings on. The man had wondered if his old friend had been wed, but that didn’t make sense. He’d written his letter to his friend. What sort of husband writes and signs on behalf of his beloved?

Bruce had remembered feeling an odd sense of shock when he opened the letter and read through its contents. The usage of his old, long-gone name hadn’t surprised him very much; Oliver had never known him as he was now, simply known him as her. He paid no mind to that. What Bruce did pay mind to, though, was the cadence of the writing, how different it seemed to sound from the Oliver he knew. It intrigued him. So, naturally, he responded, writing out an agreement to meet in his neat, cursive penmanship, requesting the hour he needed to accommodate his limitations that he deliberately made no elaboration on. Finally, he signed his name, his chosen name, and the letter was delivered. Now, a mere three days after receiving Oliver’s confirmation of location, date and time, Bruce found himself staring through the window of the carriage car he rode in at the old manor he’d spent time at with Oliver a few times before in their youth.

He lifted a hand and knocked on the front wall of the carriage to signal to the driver to stop, “This is good. Wait for my return,” he heard himself say, voice calm and even, though internally he could feel his own undead heard thumping heavily in his chest from his own anxiety. There was always the chance Oliver reacted badly to him. It wouldn’t be the first time Bruce met with someone he had known before the change in presentation, or before the change in humanity. Others had not reacted kindly, and he feared the same from Oliver, though he would never admit it aloud. Still, despite his anxieties, he opened the door of the carriage and stepped out, short-heeled boots meeting gravel, the tail of his long coat falling at his sides from the movement. He closed the door, thanked the driver, and made his way slowly towards the steps where he could make out Oliver easily in the dark.