kindred or vampire?

     ‘ i did. should we go for fun ? ’ what a joke that is. nour, who’s dedicated his unlife to a freedom from the political leash of his peers, baring some teeth on camarilla order. ‘ maybe you should go and send would if you’ve kept your head or not. i’ve just remembered i’m no use as a tracker. ’

There was a cigarette in his mouth, pinched by an incisor as Corpser came up to the roof of the funeral home. Shacking the pack of cigarettes off to the side of Nour’s head, Corpser took the long way around before dropping down into his folding chair, carton tossed onto the cheap wooden table. 

     a hand covers his screen before he can find his words. nour looks up, meets enea’s dark gaze and opens his mouth in protest. but — but ! there’s something in the corner of his eye. loose curls, familiar and doll-like and snow-white. oh. he steps closer to the painting, keeping enea on his arm. he’s never seen it before, of course, purposefully hidden away from him for a moment like this. this lovely man, tenderhearted with hands made for beautiful things. a beat of a silent breath. ‘ you, ’ he starts, taking his time with his words. ‘ i can’t believe you. when did you do this ? ’

     nour is as simple as he is complicated. he enjoys being doted on in golds and pearls. and what’s not to like about silks and lace, too ? he drinks deeply of all those little pleasures. a night too long. and iron-sweet overindulged on his tongue. and all the music he could hope got scattered around that skull of his. it’s easy for nour to fill his hours, enjoy his endless, bleeding nights. but — but sometimes blood runs cold. and sometimes melodies get muddled. sometimes i feel like you leave me alone too long. nour hugs closer, pauses in front of each era wide-eyed like he hasn’t seen them himself. tip-tip-tip with his free hand on a dimmed screen. ‘ it’s all new to them, they can’t know. i like to think its new, too. keeps it exciting. i wonder if we’ll ever run out of things to unearth. ’

“Well, I should consider it a blessing then that I can’t hear them.” At least here he couldn’t. In the underworld, that wasn’t quite the case, but he did his best to steer clear of the shadowlands, keeping far from the wraiths and specters.

“—They’ll go away soon enough.” There was a procedure for his actions, and while he may have become dulled to the second taking of a soul, he was respectful enough with a handful of chrysanthemums held out for Cường to join the collection of flowers already on the grave.

Soon was now. Casting hunger of the void, the spirit was sucked in the portal created by the sorcery. And it was closed, hopefully granting Cường some silence, until he inevitably gathered another, or a dozen.

     picky … obviously ! he wouldn’t have survived all his years on something low quality, leaving him weak-willed to his beast. there’s an irony in that, of course, in his never-ending years the hole in his stomach is deeper and deeper. and he wonders, sometimes, if it’s so bad on enea, too. so he gorges himself on blood, high-caliber in his opinion. and companions. and midnights full of stars. oh — and that grin ! pearly-points and sweet nothings. he wraps an arm around enea’s, dreamy-eyed about laces and silks and soft things. right, he forgets. this is enea’s way of doting, too. the way he dotes in paintings and journals, little things he leaves in museums to remind nour during his sleep. he tugs them along, passes through towering doors and watchful security. i’ve got it ! i’ve figured you out, he grins. you left something here for me, right ?

Was it that easy to catch him in a surprise? That little grin, the little laugh he occasionally had when he thought about the gifts he had gotten friends and the joy it would bring to their faces. Those were often monetary, this was different. Not only was it a labor of love, it was an act of giving up the things he so dearly horded. Difficult for him before his undeath, even more difficult for a tzimisce. He filled that emptiness with new sketches and spending what little wealth he had on books now deemed collector’s editions, it was worth it to have it immortalized and to see Nour happy. 

So what if he brings rain? Shouldn’t she enjoy the cool, a chance to burn hotly over drink, not summer? Cường wagers so. He tears his gaze away, eyes set on the jiving masses, temperature smoldering beneath writhing bodies.

“You’re right. I’m after a drink. Many, actually. Like him,” his answer rasps, a lone finger pointing off his tumbler. The whiskey glints with slosh, and the drunken human doesn’t look, but them, their kine, glare piercing and fangs bore into their neck– “Or the others like you.” 

“And that seems right to me. I’m drink, too, after all, if someone likes. Too much to handle, I’ve heard, but where else would you find a drink?” The werewolf wavers little, savoring another sip as the bass-roar throbs. I can be here. “Have I been understanding it wrong?”

Was it really as simple as a drink? When she thought through the politics of kindred and lycan, wouldn’t he rather be far away from kindred? As if they were any threat, there weren’t enough to take him down in this club. Could kill droves of them before they even began cooperating.

Yet she wasn’t to be here either. Camarilla and anarchs weren’t too fond of members of the sabbat. No matter how civilized the tzimisce appeared she was sabbat. And even if she tried to convince them she was independent, what tzimisce was?

Powerful to have a werewolf on your side, over-potent blood and all.

“I wasn’t saying anything against you, simply pointing out the obvious.” Perhaps he was just less introverted than his kind at Griffith Park.