Of all the godsless places Tig had heard or read of, Scourge House was, perhaps, the fairest in terms of advertising; lived up to its name, certainly. Best he didn't stay long, for so very many reasons. First among them being the thick coat of blood on the air. Fresh and old alike - it made little difference to the cursed thing in him. The wails and whimpers that were welling up as the "show" went on didn't help. His stomach churned; so did his monster's. After hours of being well-satisfied by a breakfast caught wild in the woods, it was itching at the back of his skull again, raising gooseflesh. Or sluaghflesh, as the case may be.
Just a little longer, though. It could wait. It would have to; he may, at last, have found who he was looking for. If this vampire, like his entertainment of choice, was everything Tig had been promised.
Promised by rumours caught in the back-alleys and undead-dens of Destarin, yes, but. Desperate as he was, it'd do, as leads went. Anything would.
"Ah - Valentin St. John? I believe?" Tig began, with the most decorum he could manage. And a bow, somewhat belated, perhaps too slight. From onstage, a wail, and the frenzied skittering of rats. Hundreds of them. Standing stiffly at the alchemist's table, back to all that, he licked his lips and started again. "I'm very sorry to intrude upon your - peace. But I was hoping you and I could... discuss some business. That we might have. To mutual benefit. If you would be pleased to hear such a proposal." Is that what it was? More like begging, but. A vampire out to unfetter his kind from their awful appetites seemed, perhaps, the type to appreciate a veneer of normalcy. Two men talking business, rather than two monsters talking questionable alchemy.
@valentinstjohn
