Path of the Vampire forum

Busy. That was the best way to describe how it felt to be inside a coffee shop. Feet were constantly shuffling. The sound of coffee beans being poured into the machines was set on repeat. The million and one ways a person could order a caramel macchiato had numbed his brain to the point he could probably rattle off the recipes by heart. Yet, this was the atmosphere he found himself able to work. He did his best research at the back tables of coffee shops. He could wake up at the butt crack of dawn and stay until even workers were wondering if he had a home of his own. Wireless internet, different situations and people, and of course, the endless supply of coffee to the point he got jitters, were the reason he kept coming back to coffee shops. Great thing about Harper Rock? Plenty of coffee shops, duh.

The tip of his index finger circled around the rim of his cup. The tip of his pencil tapped and tapped against the table; its addition to the overall sound in the coffee shop was miniscule. Mikey was at a lost for words, words to write down. He stared at his computer screen and groaned, sinking just a tad in his seat. The dilemma? He could see if he could get in contact with someone who could and would take him inside of the Quarantine Zone undetected because curiosity killed the cat and he knew he would be brought back until he was satisfied. It would be a different direction than he usually would go in his blogging but...it could be a break through story. At least, that's how the male justified it.

OR

Or he could send a message to the Jessy person and ask for a meeting. For a long time, he refused to do a story on the vampire lifestyle. It wasn't like there wasn't an ample supply of stories to be told. On the contrary, Mikey had receive plenty of emails and letters from fans who wanted him to write about their lifestyles. A lot of them claimed to be vampires. Vampires was a hot commodity. Movies, books, and television were now capitalizing on the fact that many were enthralled by these undead beings. Probably because they were sexualized constantly in media and the world was going to Hell in a hand basket as his mother always insisted on telling him. Whatever the reason, his fans were begging to see an in depth look on someone who was truly committed to the lifestyle. They wanted to read about someone who believed in their heart of hearts they were a vampire. So...why not give it to them if he had the opportunity to do so?

He dropped his pencil on the table and folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in his seat now. Ugh, there was just too many ideas rolling around in his head. He couldn't focus. He knew the caffeine had worn off. His right hand reached out and gripped his coffee cup, shaking it around only to be met with one thing: nothing. It was time for a refill.

Using the strength in his legs, he scooted his chair back and stood up. Mikey shoved his hand into his pocket, looking for the left over change from his first few purchases. His eyes drifted toward the long line that had accumulated.

"****," he muttered under his breath as he shuffled to get behind the last person in line, "By the time I get up there, it'll be fall..."

I deserve a break, she reaffirmed to herself as she locked up the studio early and left Veil Towers, greeted by a wall of cool air and a subtle breeze that pulled goosebumps from her skin. Without the heat of the sun on her face, the air was cold (to her, anyway), an arm wrapping about herself tighter to try and shut the air out as her cane tapped in front of her, the sound rhythmic as though to a song unheard.

She’d been stuck in the studio for what felt like years, working tirelessly on commission after commission, creating pieces to sell “off the rack” whenever she hit a block with the pieces sought. Each day, she’d get up from her third floor apartment within that same building, shower and get ready for the day ahead of her. A cup of coffee was brewed on a timer, going off and freshly brewed as she’d leave her bathroom, picking it up as she did her collapsed cane and keys, footsteps carrying her to a doorway. The same hand daily—left, carrying the cane—clasped the cold door knob and turned it, descending down the stairs to another doorway. Stopping just before it, she used the key to feel around for the lock, the satisfying click as it disengaged was heard and she’d moved through it to, closing it behind her. And, where had those stairs led her?

Her studio: her home for around twelve hours daily, committed to her art.

A little too committed at this moment in time.

When was the last time she’d gone out in the world? When was the last time she’d lost track of time doing something she loved? Reading in the sun at the park on a lonely, forgotten bench? Sitting near the docks to listen to the water lap at the shoreline while people walked passed, their conversations and the scuffing of soles on the pavement washing in and out, as though on the current itself? When had she taken a day to herself, let Cornelius run the shop on his own, or any of the other employees she had working there? Was that not the reason for moving to Harper Rock in the first place, the separation from the constancy of her art to allow herself a mental breather?

How had she gotten so wrapped up in it without noticing?

That was all about to change. It’d taken months and months before it clicked that she needed a break, that she was nearing the point of burnout while she fought with a mangled piece of clay oddly resembling an artistic interpretation of a noose. With this realization burning into her mind, palms and fingertips dried from the clay she’d only moments before been handling, she’d set out. A text had been left with Nolan so he was kept apprised of her sporadic jaunt, and then she was on her way. Where she was going, she was uncertain, allowing her feet to carry her until she no longer felt inclined to walk anymore.

Breeze at her back, hair blown forward to tickle at her nose, her brow furrowed, a hand reaching up to brush it away. Pushing the wayward hair safely behind an ear, she continued on, humming a nonsensical tune beneath her breath, carefully hugging the sides of buildings to allow room for those walking around her; Far be it for her to keep them from reaching their destinations on time.

Just as the winds shifted, a new scent joined in with the others, momentarily overwhelming her as her steps slowed to appreciate the strong aroma. Coffee. It was coffee, wafting to her on the breath of a breeze, wrapping her in a blanket of warm rememberings amid the cool draft. When was the last time I ventured into a coffee shop? an idle thought asked, the woman’s course shifting to follow the intoxicating scent until her cane tapped against a wall, an object unobliging to move. Shifting the cane so it was no longer barring her arm access to the wall before her, she felt along it until the sound of a door opening caught her attention. Moving toward the origin, her fingertips brushed glass, traveling lower and lower until they embraced the brass of a handle. With a breath loosed, she pulled it open and stepped inside.

Warmth. That was the first thing noticed, followed shortly by the scraping of mugs along the hardtops of the tables, the tinkling of utensils as they were replaced by their users, the sound of conversation—a pleasant white noise—hanging over the entirety of the establishment. Now her cane, tapping along the floor, joined in, not familiar with this particular establishment, walking until she found a table.

“Is this seat taken?” Verity asked, light, accented voice waiting for an affirmation or declaration that the table was, indeed, inhabited by someone. When nothing was heard, she lowered herself into the seat she knocked with her shin, shrugging off her coat and relaxing into it. Getting a coffee would be another feat all together, but, for now, she was content to sit and adjust.