‹Jameson Dade› He had gotten the text from Mora a few hours before, detailing the number and name of a blood doll – a term he had learned only a few days before after having realized that when he fed from someone, they remembered with full clarity who he was. Apparently, that wasn’t how it was meant to work, and he had been surviving on black market blood packs since then. Of course, the cold blood wasn’t terrible, but it lacked the life and warmth that one could only get right from the source. Apparently, Mora suffered from the same affliction, and had set herself up a system to deal with it. Jameson had contacted Robin in order to start doing the same. The only problem was that he knew very little about the whole blood doll thing. Was it like prostitution? Could you sink your fangs in, but kissing was extra? He was…oddly a little nervous. Was there a protocol? What if he insulted the other man? He was seated in the Necropolis, one of the little red sofas dotting the checkered floor. “Evening.” He said, when a man matching Robin’s description approached, plain confidence masking his nerves.
‹Robin Little› It was Mora that Robin could thank for his recent business. For any business at all, really. After discovering the world of vampires, Robin had realised he could make some money out of it. And, besides which, he was intrigued - and this job that he gave himself seemed to be a seemless way to invade the dark world of creatures that fed on human blood. And whatever else there might be. Thus far, Robin didn't have any consistent customers. None who came back to him, often. In fact, aside from Mora, he'd only had one or two other vampires take his blood. He was, of course, reasonably wary. The text was both a surprise, and somewhat expected. Robin was at a bar, sitting in a back corner writing in his notebook when it came through. He agreed with the other man where they'd meet, and how they'd recognise each other. Robin went back to his motel and showered, dressed - shaved, even. He didn't often shave, but he figured he'd have to sort out an etiquette. If he was going to be someone's food, he'd better make himself look... well, tasty. He snorted at himself in the mirror, before he flicked off the light and headed out. The Necropolis was dark, dim, but he soon found his mark. He slid into the booth opposite the man. "Jameson?" he asked, with an inquisitive narrowing of his blue eyes.
‹Robin Little› [ Attire: http://iv1.lisimg.com/image/73...ode.jpg ]
‹Jameson Dade› Jameson normally wore dark colours, simple pieces that one could have picked up at any of those large super stores that also sold food, and basically everything under the sun except for cars. The reason for that was simple – if he did manage to accidentally leave behind fibers or something at a crime scene; it was hard to trace something painfully common. He wore zip up hoodie in a shade of teal. The fabric was soft to the touch, loose save for the wrist hems which were tugged up to reveal pale forearms. His pants were black, denim. He hadn’t bothered with a t-shirt, and the zip on the hoodie was pulled just enough to reveal a collarbone. “That’s the name, apparently everyone calls me Jammy though.” Which he still didn’t get, but had been assured it was reasonable. Leaning, he offered his hand to shake, revealing bitten, uneven nails that were, to their credit, at least clean. Mora had told him that Robin was, in her words ‘hooooot’. It seemed she hadn’t been lying. “That would make you Robin?”
‹Robin Little› Robin smiled. A brilliant, gleaming thing that was only a reflection of his own personality; not some preaching hippie flooding the world with sunshine and flowers, but confident in his own stride. Happy in his own spontaneous life. He liked to call himself an optimistic pessimist - he'd had enough bad **** happen to him in his life to know everything's not grand, but has had plenty enough go his way to trust that everything would sort itself out, sooner or later. His fingers - long and slender, the fingernails stained with ink (because he liked to use a fountain pen when writing) - closed around Jameson's palm. "That's me. I'm kind of new to this job so you'll have to excuse me. I'm working out the stipulations as I go," he said with a laugh; he had a laugh that never failed to touch his eyes.
‹Jameson Dade› Robin had an honest smile, the kind that people wore when they either knew all of the best of life, or all of the wore (and therefor knew when to find indulgence in the bright moments); Jameson liked it. He couldn’t resist returning the expression, which revealed two rows of ivory, the only real gift his parents had ever given him. Good genetics. Looking at his mouth, it was almost impossible to tell he had abused drugs for most of his life. His eyes had a certain animated quality to them, vibrant like the sky, and equally blue. “I’m new to this vampire thing, so you’re in good company.” He murmured in response, thankful that the other man wasn’t a pro; made him feel more legitimately confident than he had going into the situation. “I assume we talk price and then carry on with the feeding?” Simple. Straight forward. His hand drew back so that fingers could weave together, palms pressed together as he rested his arms on the table between them, leaning forward with shoulders hunched just a little. His hair, which he kept long, was the sunlight to his empyrean gaze, golden where it near threatened to spill against a shoulder with the tip of a head.
‹Robin Little› Robin's laughter deepened, tinged with a knowing, wary kind of tone. As if Jameson weren't a stranger and a vampire, but an old friend who'd just offered him a challenge, a dare that he could not resist. New to the vampire thing, indeed - that put Robin in more danger than he'd care to think about, right? Surely the new ones were the ones that messed things up. The ones that couldn't control themselves. The ones that might tear the skin rather than just pierce it, thus causing Robin to like... bleed out. But, what Robin had discovered, which he hadn't had much of a chance to discover before, was that he was a kind of fatalist. Addicted to the adrenaline and the possibility of death. Robin nodded. "There's no society for this kind of ****," Robin said. Again, like Jameson were just an old friend rather than a 'customer'. "I haven't got blood doll buddies to talk to, so I know what price is reasonable. I figure - I need enough to live off. And I can't go giving away ten pints of blood a night, right? So. How does five hundred sound?" Robin asked. Five hundred seemed a lot to him to make in one night - but why not pull out the big guns, first? Besides. Call it insurance money.
‹Jameson Dade› Laughter came easy to Robin, a boon in Jameson’s book. There was very little in life that he could manage to take seriously, at least when it came to the day to day things. That was probably one of his fundamental flaws, and the cause of his own self-sabotage. None the less, he joined the man in his laughter, his own relaxed; showing some of the depth of his voice. He could almost taste something…different about Robin. Maybe it was a junkie’s sixth sense, but he felt like there was some kind of danger tangled in the man across from him, and that only made him want to try that blood all the more. He took risks every night. His entire life was breaking into buildings, jacking loot, getting out before the cops could hunt him down. He’d quit his job at the gas station because what he did paid well. Paid enough for his father’s prison commissary and paid the rent for his perpetually strung out mother. “Five hundred’s a lot. I pay two hundred a day for blood packs.” But there was the chance it’d be worth it. Warm blood from an attractive gent? “I guess it depends where I’m drinking from and how often I get to have you.”
‹Robin Little› It was Mora that Robin could thank for his recent business. For any business at all, really. After discovering the world of vampires, Robin had realised he could make some money out of it. And, besides which, he was intrigued - and this job that he gave himself seemed to be a seemless way to invade the dark world of creatures that fed on human blood. And whatever else there might be. Thus far, Robin didn't have any consistent customers. None who came back to him, often. In fact, aside from Mora, he'd only had one or two other vampires take his blood. He was, of course, reasonably wary. The text was both a surprise, and somewhat expected. Robin was at a bar, sitting in a back corner writing in his notebook when it came through. He agreed with the other man where they'd meet, and how they'd recognise each other. Robin went back to his motel and showered, dressed - shaved, even. He didn't often shave, but he figured he'd have to sort out an etiquette. If he was going to be someone's food, he'd better make himself look... well, tasty. He snorted at himself in the mirror, before he flicked off the light and headed out. The Necropolis was dark, dim, but he soon found his mark. He slid into the booth opposite the man. "Jameson?" he asked, with an inquisitive narrowing of his blue eyes.
‹Robin Little› [ Attire: http://iv1.lisimg.com/image/73...ode.jpg ]
‹Jameson Dade› Jameson normally wore dark colours, simple pieces that one could have picked up at any of those large super stores that also sold food, and basically everything under the sun except for cars. The reason for that was simple – if he did manage to accidentally leave behind fibers or something at a crime scene; it was hard to trace something painfully common. He wore zip up hoodie in a shade of teal. The fabric was soft to the touch, loose save for the wrist hems which were tugged up to reveal pale forearms. His pants were black, denim. He hadn’t bothered with a t-shirt, and the zip on the hoodie was pulled just enough to reveal a collarbone. “That’s the name, apparently everyone calls me Jammy though.” Which he still didn’t get, but had been assured it was reasonable. Leaning, he offered his hand to shake, revealing bitten, uneven nails that were, to their credit, at least clean. Mora had told him that Robin was, in her words ‘hooooot’. It seemed she hadn’t been lying. “That would make you Robin?”
‹Robin Little› Robin smiled. A brilliant, gleaming thing that was only a reflection of his own personality; not some preaching hippie flooding the world with sunshine and flowers, but confident in his own stride. Happy in his own spontaneous life. He liked to call himself an optimistic pessimist - he'd had enough bad **** happen to him in his life to know everything's not grand, but has had plenty enough go his way to trust that everything would sort itself out, sooner or later. His fingers - long and slender, the fingernails stained with ink (because he liked to use a fountain pen when writing) - closed around Jameson's palm. "That's me. I'm kind of new to this job so you'll have to excuse me. I'm working out the stipulations as I go," he said with a laugh; he had a laugh that never failed to touch his eyes.
‹Jameson Dade› Robin had an honest smile, the kind that people wore when they either knew all of the best of life, or all of the wore (and therefor knew when to find indulgence in the bright moments); Jameson liked it. He couldn’t resist returning the expression, which revealed two rows of ivory, the only real gift his parents had ever given him. Good genetics. Looking at his mouth, it was almost impossible to tell he had abused drugs for most of his life. His eyes had a certain animated quality to them, vibrant like the sky, and equally blue. “I’m new to this vampire thing, so you’re in good company.” He murmured in response, thankful that the other man wasn’t a pro; made him feel more legitimately confident than he had going into the situation. “I assume we talk price and then carry on with the feeding?” Simple. Straight forward. His hand drew back so that fingers could weave together, palms pressed together as he rested his arms on the table between them, leaning forward with shoulders hunched just a little. His hair, which he kept long, was the sunlight to his empyrean gaze, golden where it near threatened to spill against a shoulder with the tip of a head.
‹Robin Little› Robin's laughter deepened, tinged with a knowing, wary kind of tone. As if Jameson weren't a stranger and a vampire, but an old friend who'd just offered him a challenge, a dare that he could not resist. New to the vampire thing, indeed - that put Robin in more danger than he'd care to think about, right? Surely the new ones were the ones that messed things up. The ones that couldn't control themselves. The ones that might tear the skin rather than just pierce it, thus causing Robin to like... bleed out. But, what Robin had discovered, which he hadn't had much of a chance to discover before, was that he was a kind of fatalist. Addicted to the adrenaline and the possibility of death. Robin nodded. "There's no society for this kind of ****," Robin said. Again, like Jameson were just an old friend rather than a 'customer'. "I haven't got blood doll buddies to talk to, so I know what price is reasonable. I figure - I need enough to live off. And I can't go giving away ten pints of blood a night, right? So. How does five hundred sound?" Robin asked. Five hundred seemed a lot to him to make in one night - but why not pull out the big guns, first? Besides. Call it insurance money.
‹Jameson Dade› Laughter came easy to Robin, a boon in Jameson’s book. There was very little in life that he could manage to take seriously, at least when it came to the day to day things. That was probably one of his fundamental flaws, and the cause of his own self-sabotage. None the less, he joined the man in his laughter, his own relaxed; showing some of the depth of his voice. He could almost taste something…different about Robin. Maybe it was a junkie’s sixth sense, but he felt like there was some kind of danger tangled in the man across from him, and that only made him want to try that blood all the more. He took risks every night. His entire life was breaking into buildings, jacking loot, getting out before the cops could hunt him down. He’d quit his job at the gas station because what he did paid well. Paid enough for his father’s prison commissary and paid the rent for his perpetually strung out mother. “Five hundred’s a lot. I pay two hundred a day for blood packs.” But there was the chance it’d be worth it. Warm blood from an attractive gent? “I guess it depends where I’m drinking from and how often I get to have you.”
