gʀɑɦɑɱ ɦɑʆɗɑʀ, ɛรquiʀɛ (businesslike) wrote in summerview, @ 2018-11-23 18:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | song challenge, zgraham haldar, zo |
sour by the minute
Who: Graham & O
What: Song Lyric Challenge (and meeting) - the song is Sweet Sour by Band of Skulls
When: Tonight
Where: In the dark, crossing the bridge
Rating: Low
Status: Complete
The part of Atlantic City he’d just come from, well, it wasn’t anything to write home about - but it was also where Graham had found a good meal, where he’d dined out. He’d done his research, as always, a meticulous hunter through and through - and he would do well to stick to his feeding schedule since he didn’t particularly want to make a glutton of himself. For so long he’d been going alone, no other vampires to really share the experience with - in Summerview, Mircea usually wasn’t interested and it had taken some convincing to get him to go out even once. Lately he’d been leaving the island more and more with Lenore, however, to teach her how to hunt and letting her practice a little concept called ‘control.’ That meant Graham was feeding too. So his snack, he hadn’t needed to go very far into the more seedier areas. Easily, he’d stumbled upon an idiotic carjacker and that seemed to be a stroke of good luck - perhaps not for the thief, but for Graham. A decent light meal all things considered; he hadn’t drained the useless cocksplat dry, just had his fill and sent the man on his way in a hypnotic stupor, barely remembering what had even happened. Then he returned to the island, crossing the bridge back into town. In the stillness of the night, he looked every bit like how horror novelists of Victorian London, that age of intellectual enterprise, expected him to be. Skin pale to the point of a frigid death taking hold, eyes hollow and black when instincts took over, when he was on the prowl. He planned to just go home, since there was nothing left to do - but he’d stolen a pack of expensive cigarettes from the thief, so may as well try one out to see what the fuss was about. They were a Greek brand, and tasted rich; he could tell right away when he lit one. Border patrol and barrier safety had become nearly an obsession for her. O was desperate to please Jayati, desperate to prove that she was more than some odd creature that had escaped from a laboratory somewhere and could be part of this sanctuary community. Every day she discovered something new though not necessarily exciting, but the most constant aspect of her life was the security of the island. Each night she flew as high as she was able in effort to obtain an overview of the place, she knew the comings and goings of those citizens without alerting them to her presence. For the most part it was a relatively quiet job; once in a while she would come upon a centaur whom as drunk and nearly disorderly, desperate to leave the island. One might consider the task a chore, boring. A flap from her obsidian wings and she was landing on the ground near the man who had entered the barrier and come into Summerview via the bridge. Species didn’t matter to her. Little by little she was learning about the residents here but there were no others like her that she had found in that short time being welcomed. A winged human. This was no gift. Sharp eyes caught sight of the embers, that unusual glow. Her experience with cigarettes was slight. O saw them here and there, some of the other residents smoked (she learned that it was called smoking from an odd fellow with unsightly red hair) and so she knew that was what this man was partaking in. His features were stunning, unparalleled. Her experiences with vampires was none. The wings folded as soon as her feet hit the ground, settling perfectly against her back. Even in the darkness she could make out the finest details of his physique. Jayati had encouraged her to be more social (and to relax, whatever that meant) and though her attempts usually didn’t end in her favor she would try anyway. “That smells different.” The smoke was racing itself, grey streamers climbing toward the night sky. Graham ashed the cigarette with a flick, unsure how he felt about this brand of cancer stick - he wouldn’t get cancer even if he smoked a pack a day, but it was still sort of a dirty habit overall. “Not my favorite scent,” he admitted - and the presence of someone else was enough to get him to end this experiment, snuffing out the cigarette beneath his shoe with a twist. “It’s the tobacco leaves though. Some like the smell. Want one?” He offered the pack, and it was then he noticed who had appeared there - she’d been flying, hadn’t she? Not something Graham found odd. He’d come across all sorts of ‘types’ in his miserable life. She was quite beautiful, and that was what he actually noticed - he didn’t always, however; so many faces just blended together in town, pleasant aesthetics were a dime a dozen around here. But he noticed now. “They’re bad for you though. Then again, a lot of things are.” He chuckled to himself. “I’m Graham - I take it you were doing some sort of patrol?” His reply was casual. O took a breath as she analyzed it, her brain overworking the words offered for any sort of menace or negativity. She yearned for positivity, stability. Her dark eyes never left him though for once the flat, monotone expression on her face faded away leaving pure curiosity and interest in its wake. “What is your favorite scent?” At the offer for a cigarette O stepped forward from the shadows without a shred of hesitation, almost marching toward the man. She paused before him, the arches of her wings twitching. People didn’t offer her things so this was not an opportunity she would squander. She wouldn’t admit to the lack of knowledge of what a tobacco leaf was. The package was taken with nimble fingers, she was careful with it, delicate as one of the cigarettes was worked free from the container. Like a child discovering a new world she held one of the slender sticks up and let her dark eyes roam over it, meanwhile giving the package back to the stranger. “Bad for you?” They seemed harmless, that tiny sliver of rolled paper. And her eyes lifted from the task. She set her gaze on his, “I am O. I was patrolling, yes.” Would it be strange to say blood was his favorite scent? Graham thought that, indeed, it might. However, the more he thought about it he didn’t think that was the case anyway - London was utterly awful in terms of scent, during his youth. The Great Stink coming off the Thames, you see - and roads packed with carriages, sheep being carted off to slaughter, overflowing cesspits and leaking gas mains. Nothing about that was pleasant, but he remembered one thing. “When I was younger, every type of cake was decorated - wedding cakes, special celebration cakes, even smaller cakes, and bakeries would do it in the window to entice customers. They’d use almond paste which doesn’t actually smell like almonds - it smells like cherries. I think that’s my favorite scent,” he said, rummaging in his jacket pocket for the lighter. Nevermind that actually going into an inner-city bakery was a whole other gamble - bread dough was kneaded in a trough using feet, and one might find a toenail in their recently acquired loaf on occasion. He had distinctly avoided inner-city bakeries, let’s just say. “And what is your favorite scent? I gather it’s not going to be cigarette smoke. Here -” The wheel on the lighter was clicked on, the small flame flickering. “You’ve got to light this end,” he explained, doing it for O - who seemed very new to cigarettes. There was probably a reason for that. There, but now she could try it out and see for herself. “They’re bad for you in the sense that the tobacco contains nicotine, which is rather destructive. For most, anyway. But one won’t hurt.” And they were supposed to soothe frayed nerves - or suppress the appetite, just look ‘cool’ in one’s hands. Who knew why people started smoking. When Graham began speaking of cakes, cherries, O nodded even though she had no idea what those things were. She had heard of them but if she had seen them then she hadn’t realized it before. Her experiences with bakeries was nil. “Flowers,” she admitted. Stormflowers had been a trove of scents, aromas of things she’d never experienced prior, and flowers has become her new preferred smell. The type didn’t matter to her - she wouldn’t have been able to decipher through them anyway. With eager anticipation she let Graham guide her through the motions of the task. The end smouldered as it had done before and mimicking his earlier actions she put the unlit end into her mouth between her lips. An accidental inhale caused the illuminated end to burn and for the taste to overtake her mouth. Her face contorted and the paper roll was plucked from her mouth before a fit of coughing ensued. She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. “No. That does not taste good.” Graham cracked a smile, taking the cigarette back. He’d finish it off if she didn’t want it. “It’s perhaps an acquired taste. Everyone coughs the first time,” he said. “And the scent’s not as nice as flowers, admittedly.” Lemon, cloves, pure sweetness - flowers had a variety of aromas, and he picked up on the nuances between them all. Enhanced senses helped with that - he’d probably be a good sommelier if he ever decided to poke his head out from crunching numbers. An inhale, then another exhale in a thin, noxious stream. He observed O (was that short for anything? Ophelia? Odette? Olivia - she sort of looked like an Olivia), finding it amusing that he’d been meeting more people as of late. Here he thought he knew most everyone in town, but life surprised him. “Your wings are lovely,” he complimented. “How long have you been here?” The cigarette left her fingers. She was glad it was gone, running a long sleeve across her mouth as if to scrub away the taste. How anyone acquired such a taste was beyond her but perhaps she wasn’t made for all things. Upon mention of her wings O cast a glance over a shoulder. The wing she observed twitched, rustling almost impatiently. She turned her head and looked back at Graham. “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure how to take the compliment but she did her best. “A few weeks.” Unknowing, absent, the fingers of one hand picked at the hem of the sleeve of her opposite wrist. For a split second the tattooed numbers were exposed and then those numbers and letters hid again. He caught a glimpse of those numbers, with such keen eyesight - and Graham put the pieces together quickly. She’d only been here a few weeks. Seemed skittish. Didn’t know what cigarettes were or why they were bad for fragile human lungs. And one did not tattoo numbers on themselves, not usually. “I haven’t seen you around the bookstore,” he observed - he wondered if the rubbish who had obviously done rubbish things to her let her read books, taught her how to read. “It’s where I work. But you ought to come by sometime. I’ll try to find something grand for you.” A genuine offer made before he blew out one last flurry from his cigarette, into the wintry air, and then tossed the remains to smolder them. At mention of the bookstore O seemed again curious. It was a challenge to venture into places because of her wings, places weren’t constructed to accommodate her and she was prone to knocking things over by accident. But she nodded, a touch of light pouring into otherwise dark eyes. “I would like that.” She knew of work but not in the context he was using it. Jayati had given her this job and helped O when she needed something, otherwise she wasn’t earning a living of her own. “Thank you.” The idea of having something found for her was strange - she was awash with emotions she’d never felt before. The prickles of delight touched the corners of her eyes but she had no idea that was what she was feeling. One of her wings stretched as if it were tired of being folded, the feathers shimmering in the cool wind. When it was done it folded back where it had come from. “What do you do at the bookstore?” He said he worked there, did he sell the books? She had never seen him when she’d peered into the window. “I’m the accountant,” Graham said, interested in her wings - they were just fascinating to watch, like they had a mind of their own. He didn’t know of any winged species besides gargoyles - there were perhaps more, but no matter. It was intriguing to meet new types. “I’m mostly in the back room, crunching numbers for the owner. But occasionally I come up front.” Not often - that meant interacting with customers and ugh. Not everyone understood that he was far from ‘a people person.’ Overly cheerful types, he just didn’t quite get those sorts - he was quiet, reflective. Being loud was basically his worst nightmare. “You’ll give me a good excuse to come up front, anyway,” he chuckled. “We’re open late at night. Daytime hours aren’t really...feasible.” They weren’t when you burnt to a crisp in the sun, no. Or were otherwise weakened during daylight. The title and then description of his duties was strung together in a way she could understand - an accountant meant you sat in a back room and crunched numbers. The mental image which arose would’ve been hilarious probably to someone who actually knew what an accountant was, but for O she pictured this man crunching actual shapes of numbers in his hands, with his shoe. It seemed brutal almost. “Oh,” she replied. O was not a loud person. She could be if she was defending herself or something was awry but she was thoughtful, quiet, observant and antisocial when it came to approaching others for conversation. This occasion had been the exception but she didn’t regret it. She nodded. “I’ll come in to visit.” It was about as promising as she could get and she hoped she navigated the bookstore better than she had Stormflowers that one time she’d stopped in there. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll look out for you, and it’ll be a nice treat - we don’t often get such pretty ladies in the shop,” he said, and he was teasing lightly but it was true because all he had to look at all day was Mircea. Who might take offense, but rest assured, his vampire friend was quite pretty as well. In a more...finicky sort of way. Adjusting his tie (he had nary a drop of blood on his suit, because Graham was an impeccable eater - one of his strong qualities), he realized he ought to get going. O was patrolling, and he didn’t wish to keep her from her job. “I’ll let you get back to work,” he added. “Though it was lovely meeting you.” Unsure how to take what she felt was a nice word - she had never been called pretty before and so her reaction was as neutral as it always was - O just nodded. She would go, she wanted to keep her promise and Graham was interesting. “Yes,” she began, taking a step backward. “I will see you.” That seemed an appropriate greeting to fit the circumstance. She observed a lot of humans once she had been sprung free from captivity and even more of the mannerisms of those on the island. A hand lifted in a wave. She felt that was a polite gesture, one that might get across what she lacked the words for. |