In a city pain and killings were not as uncommon as some would wish it to be. The smell of freshly spilled blood had a certain effect on Zephaniah, but it was the sound of agony through the air, his mind and his heart that drew the vampire's true attention. Moving with a blur of motion Zane usually reserved for life or death situations, he tracked the mental cries to an alley with police tape across it. Zane was a old fashioned, sentimental fool who had found a purpose and way toward redemption for the killing his sire forced upon him.
"Hello," He said by way of announcing himself. Zane kept his voice soft, but his own patience and strength laced through it. Stepping out of the shadows, green eyes watched the other vampire. "I'm Zephaniah." No matter the clothes he wore his aura and expressions were that of his past, that of the priest that still held tight to his heart.
"What's your name?" Young vampires or vampires that had lost some part of their sanity needed to be treated like an animal in pain, with a calm voice and no fear that they would attack. Zane believed that if one was to convince themselves that they were not in danger, the danger may subside and never show itself.