#memcirs

holding a piece of her sketch book paper behind his back he decided to question, " how fairs your studies tonight, eleanor? " a beat. a pause, " are you by chance ... drawing anything of note ? "

distracting her from what he concealed until she would offer answer before he was revealing what was behind his back, " I found this , upon the floor. "

fangs delicately showing around her more often. not to bite, but to entice her into further studies and questions, " its a great likeness of me. "

flipping it over he showed her a vampiric sketch of himself. one made by her. with notes etched upon it. of course, the amusement was obviously displayed upon his cheekbones and structure. he'd stray from chuckling though he felt it in his chest. @memcirs seemed to always surprise him.

{ meme } | selectively accepting ;••••; @memcirs​ asked▬

[ WHISPER ] + - memcirs

The lamplight dotting the street in two perfect rows did little to dissipate the heavy, cool fog that draped over this quiet section of London. The hour was late, as indictated by the clock tower whose bell resonated eleven strokes. Neither did the drizzle of rain wash away the thick, palpable blanket of mist. It had been a decade since the Romanian had been to England. The last trip turned out to not be in his favor. And, coming back from the dead was no grand experience, either. Yet, he now strolled with an aimless grace down the uncrowded street, his nyxian hair pulled back into a tail. The foreigner’s attire was also all black, a shadow with a body that had no destination within the endless night and seemingly endless damp fog. 

Though it was late, many establishments were still operating. Their light in the windows, squares of a buttery warm glow in the blurred panes. The vampire’s eye looked into one such establishment, where the proprieter stood behind a counter taking orders from patrons seeking shelter and warmth from the elements. Beyond that, areas were sectioned off and divided by painted screens. Through such a screen, where the hinges did not quite seal together, the vampire saw a radiant creature, bent over a book. Her coppery locks swept up and her brow tightly drawn in a ruminative hold. What literature could hold her as such? She was alone and a steaming cup of tea awaited her. For whatever reason, he was drawn to seek the same shelter she had.

Out of habit to keep himself appearing ordinary, Dracula placed on order for whatever the studious lady had, the real reason why he had not stayed out in the night and turned down the streets, creating a maze in his path. Mumurings from the few other patrons were not focused upon as the creature in black wove through the screens and at last stood behind the woman he first saw through the window.

Knocking on the door of the entrance they believe Bram Stoker lived in, Flynn waits until the door opens. “Greetings, may I have an audience with Mr. Stoker please?” 

Reassurance was far from his worried stare of mind, staring out into the crowd of British solider's which littered the dining area. Even the chime of his bell above the front door failed to draw his attention as it normally did, unaware of his father approaching from the corner of his eye. 

“Robert?...” The sound of his name seemed awfully distant, continuing to examine each individual dressed in a red uniform. A firm hand grasped his shoulder, causing the young man to flinch out of his trance as his father gave him a firm shake. “Robert? Are you alright?”

Despite his uncertainties, he forced a smile while nodding his head as a quick reassurance. You arse. Pay attention. “Yes, I’m fine. My apologies. I was... thinking.” The Quaker confirmed, turning around to follow his father further into the kitchen. “Thinking? When are you not thinking Robert?” His father remarked, swallowing back his urge to protest his statement.

“Why are you here?” ___ “We were having dinner tonight I believe.” In all honesty, he had completely forgotten about the former plans made earlier in the week, now nodding his head as if he remembered completely.  “Anything you wish for me to make?” Robert asked before he slipped past his fathers side, beginning to clear the counter of used ale mugs. One by one, he began to drop them into a pail full of old water beside him, stopping as he felt a hand rest on his shoulder again.

“I’ll cook. You have a customer.” The older man stated as he limped about the counter in search of a clean pot. Brown hues darted towards the front desk, his gaze falling upon a young blonde woman wearing circular glasses looking rather nervous. She wasn’t from around here. She’s nervous. He glanced back over in his fathers direction only to see him watching from a distance, the slightest smirk playing across his lips. Robert arched a brow in question before approaching the counter, grabbing the quill with dried ink at it’s tip from off of the counter top. “How can I help you?”

       “There are times to have one’s nose in a book                     - though whilst crossing a thoroughfare is not one of them.”

The corner of Santino's mouth twitched in barely veiled amusement. He offered the young doctor a gloved hand to usher her through the open glass doors of the secluded mansion. He appeared a sharp outline beside her, a shadow at her heels, not particularly imposing in height among these Norse-blooded Englishmen, but broader in the shoulders than most. Eleanor's companion kept a weather eye on the mingling throngs of well-to-do gentlefolk. The women charmed in their finely arranged dresses as men postulated about the latest bout of politics.

"Certainly," Santino agreed softly, accompanied by the rustling of his black velvet overcoat. "No more so than I."

A woman doctor and her foreign undertaker; that was the understanding at the time. Or so Santino gleaned from the fluttering minds of their surroundings. They would be regarded as conversation pieces, as exotics. Though none would be allowed to dismiss out of hand that they were invited into this space, and had the right to claim it. Santino seemed well at ease. The lines at the edges of his eyes creased with an invisible smile.

the pain on his face was visibly shown. though it marked him as someone who had feeling for another , a vampyr , one that had strayed long from home. he didn't know this one ( besides in passing ) as he had not been their sire , though he shared the burden of mourning over one that did not belong to him.

burnt to ash and caged. found out from hunters and humans that despised his kind. he waited for the sorrow to whip him into turning back to her and when he did it was only after he heard her words. and they were sharp.

" from it's beautiful beginning to it's .... sordid end. "

" she was just like anyone else. " he proclaimed. before heading for his castle doors. setting her out in a manner of moments between the garden walls and freedom forthwith, " her only tribulation being one of my kind. " his voice was sharp then. angry. settling into his bones and into his tongue as he lashed out past her. of course , he suspected that her words were in pure mockery and tasting vile on his throat.

his eyebrows furrowed. knitting together in a complex expression range of confused, anger, and sorrow. of course, she would suspect he wanted to end her life. she was a van helsing. his mortal enemy. yet, he didn't feel that way about her. never had. though, he had several chances to end her life, not just one. however, he would never do that. never even try.

" I don't want to kill you. " he muttered loud enough for her to hear. as his hands were brought up to the side of her face. yet hovering. not quite touching her face, " I'd take no pleasure in it. " his hand fell helplessly back to his side. giving up on touching her cheek.

pity settled into his eyes. looking at her as if she were more violable that evening. more vulnerable. his brown hues settling onto her face. before he could extend an offered thought. that maybe she had been thinking him a monster while he consciously tried to prove otherwise. that he was not just a beast of the night. that he was a vampire ruling over his own moral choices. the one's only starting with her name, " you are more than a van helsing. " he uttered. his own truth mingled in with the falsehood that she had maybe been believing in, " you are much more, eleanor. "