where: nondescript dive bar, open late when: one month ago; not long after night fall, around nine pm who: @faeriscare ( elowen montague )
His eyes flicker open as the sun disappears under the horizon, the familiar wood of a closed coffin underground, the flexing of muscles and shine of blue-grey iris' welcoming the dark. It's been quiet in Lafleur recently, some say peaceful, Peter says fucking boring. Since gaining the title of Sheriff he's had to be more discreet about his search for excitement, the permanently embedded desire for chaos. Still, he seeks it out, a lurking body slipping through shadows until making an entrance, sights and scents leading the charge, lithe and hungry as he moves through the night. The best places to find debauchery hasn't changed in a century, one of the things he's been most noted for in his existence; go where the liquor is, and he will find what he's looking for.
The main strip of Lafleur is about as busy as it gets in a town this size, the weekend bringing out all the demons to the streets, the early birds already staggering in the road and the others only beginning their evening with light beer and low laughs. He does his rounds, noting the usual suspects, keeping a particular focus on his people more than the others; he has a job to do, of course. Nothing happens at this time, too early for the monsters to be let off the leash, waiting until the clock ticks into the morning and the citizens are loose and their eyes are glazed.
He enters one of the local pubs, a shitty dive bar that tries to be nothing more than it is. He respects that in an establishment, sticky floors and tacky lights, bartenders resting their elbows on the wood of the bar top, flashing light cleavage to the clientele for bigger tips. Classic. He sidles up, a lazy wave and a sharp recognition in her eyes as she turns and grabs a bottle of True Blood without saying a word, sliding it over to him unheated because if it tastes like shit anyways he won't make her go through the trouble. He flashes a dangerously charming smile with a sharp show of white teeth and slides over a twenty before retreating to a back wall, a casual lean with keen eyes, the array of scents that he digs through the find the most appetizing one. He's almost made a choice, eyeing a pretty blonde who has a lovely little tangerine note when his senses are completely wiped; a sharp intake of air through his nose and his head snaps towards the door.
What the fuck is that? Fresh and clean, honeycomb and vanilla, something sharp, like amber, the effect immediate and all consuming, the urge to appear in front of her, to put his hands on her neck and say, mystified, "What are you?" Never has he smelled anything like it, fighting the desire to grab her and drain her dry on the spot, give so easily into temptation. No, he stays were he is, but the focus of his eyes is stark, burning into her, practically salivating at the effect. He forces a swig of True Blood, if it was disgusting before it's rancid now, so starkly different than what his senses are focused on. She doesn't know she walked into the lion's den β and she doesn't know she won't be leaving, no, not until he does.
