John tilted his head. "Not sure I ever had that sort of inspiration. Words were never my particular strong suit," he smiled. Ironic, but less inaccurate than his vocal confidence. Writing in school, seminary, and later sermons had always been a particular struggle for the more action-oriented man. He'd usually gotten away with being less well written through his thoughtful, quotation-heavy interpretations, even if he had been accused more than once of misquoting or liberalizing the content of the Good Book. The thought made him smirk slightly, since he no longer cared for the content and could tell how truly subversive some of his old outlooks could have been. Not that he'd ever set out to really shake up the establishment at the time of authorhood.
He mulled over their music and potential names, then chuckled. "Maybe numbers are for the best," he decided finally, with a simple shrug. At the offer of actually going for dinner he paused, the brief possibility of the two Erics in his life meeting if they went for blood being an unpredictable thought. He rarely mentioned his family to Eric, not wanting to expose his nest to anybody without reason. Still, he supposed with his own presence, and that of the synthetic dietary supplement's availability, had probably tipped the gothic Eric off that there were more night predators in the City. If nothing else had.
He nodded, and stood, setting down his new instrument carefully and brushing it off before he grabbed his jacket. "I fed when I woke," he said, shaking his head. He had never been one for vices, and while he no longer had any qualms and did indeed enjoy feeding, he was reluctant to forgo the self control that too much blood would cause. The last time he'd over indulged was still vibrant in his mind. "But I'll accompany you for a drink at your own waterhole."