This thread is back-dated to Feb 13th 2019
The Telepath could put off his cravings with lesser pleasures, but only for a time. Sleep was more a luxury than a necessity these nights, even if he was capable of tiring. Music was a beautiful motivator and cathartic influence too, but it could be drowned out by the serenading of the streets. Sexual satiation - even from the most arbitrary of places and people - was a fleeting escape. And every tiny jewel that Myk could set his pewter eyes upon quickly dulled with age and experience. These small things were mere distractions in the face of his desires, and inevitably - fatefully - Myk would always feel that hunger. It was that hunger - that growing ache that reached his innards and left him humming with fever and complaint - which Myk could never escape.
It was raining that night. The scent of life washed away with the pounding water, rinsing the world of its sins. From his silent stance beneath the stone overhang of a baroque archway, the Telepath relished the sights and sounds surrounding him. It was always a pleasant feeling to mix amongst these strange, oblivious folk. One of Myk’s favourite past-times was people watching and he often dressed purposely to stimulate responses. The Telepath’s wardrobe featured a wide range of outfits, from the damn-right terrifying, to mildly quirky, and occasionally normal, casual attire. Myk’s wardrobe had many styles as well, with Circus ware, Gothic-chic, Victorian themes, Steampunk, Kawaii, Cyberpunk, Fetish, and Visual Kei featuring predominantly. Just as spontaneous and varied, was Myk’s selection of make-up, accessories, hair styles, and shoes. As it happened, however, on this night Myk was absorbed in the shadows of reticence.
The Telepath was dressed rather plainly in stone-wash jeans, a long-sleeved, hooded shirt, and heavy-duty boots. His hair was ironed flat in rivulets that poured down to his navel like milk; a sharp contrast to the black of his attire. His features were quiet; white foundation perfected his cashmere complexion while smoky eye-liner, rose eyeshadow, and a layer of mascara framed his pewter eyes. His lips were unnaturally pale at the edges, but were kissed with the softest hint of rose in the centre; a common ombre lipstick trend in Asian countries. All his features were proportionate and striking; highlighted and shadowed with expert contouring. The balance of masculinity and femininity was so even that he straddled the line of androgyny and sexlessness - something unnatural and alien to the world.
Myk took in a breath as he closed his eyes; the oxygen wasn’t needed of course, but the habit was there. The inhale of damp, sweet air was also calming. The Telepath’s shoulders slumped and his back pressed against the wall. He could stay here for hours, undisturbed, unwatched, and unwanted. Ordinarily these sentiments might have made the Vampire fret, but tonight, Myk needed to be alone. Yet, the comforting, clean scent of rain was soon dominated with blood, and the soothing patter of each heavy drop was drowned out by the beating of human hearts. The Telepath finally opened his eyes to gaze out at the city, pewter orbs full of contempt for any and all who dared to entreat on his attention.
Thump, thump, thump…
That sound. That all-encompassing sound was closer now.
Thump-thump-thump…
And quicker still.
Myk glared at those who scurried by him like frightened mice, but just like the lightning in the skies above, it all disappeared. All was silent once more - save for the rain - and the Telepath closed his eyes again.
The first sensation Myk could place as the dregs of a dreamless sleep crept away from him was the tug on his sleeve. Pewter eyes dripped down his own arm, crooning past the ripped and layered black fabric to the discrete, long-fingered hand that settled its weight on Myk’s elbow. Myk lifted his head suddenly and the force of the motion made his pewter eyes roll drunkenly in his skull. A high-pitched tone droned on in Myk’s ears, drowning out the voices of those around him. It was difficult to focus for a few moments, but Myk made out a prominent face amongst so much fog and darkness. Two piercing blue eyes pulled out of a roundish face, a square jaw hung low amid two boulder-sized shoulders. A torso, cloaked in a staunch grey overalls, lit up the part of Myk’s brain that recognised symbols. Pewter eyes, now clear and sharp, looked back to the janitor’s pug-like face with a scowl.
“You can’t sleep here, sir.”
Myk frowned, his movements sluggish and trembling and his mind bewildered. When he tried to remember the events of this night though, his memories scattered and floated away like paper scraps caught in an updraft. Myk snatched at the soaring memories, determined to remember, but he couldn’t collect enough to form a comprehensible picture. The first thing he could keep hold of was the memory of the rain and how he’d taken shelter beneath an archway near Cedar Court. He remembered the lightning flash and nothing more, nothing more than waking to this man leering at him and gripping his arm tightly as he woke, finding himself seated at a table in the middle of a library. The young thumping hearts of students and the frailer heart of janitor were keeping him alarmed, but the anxious looks on their faces made him bitter and jealous.
Myk tried to pull away, pewter eyes narrowing, but the janitor would not release him.
“Are you… ok?” the man continued to ask.
“No,” Myk seethed in return. “You’re hurting me.”
“I’m sorry...”
Finally the grip on his arm ceased and Myk felt a breath of air pull out of his lungs like it was attached to the man’s sleeve. He hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath or that he had been so tense as to claw into the wooden desk beneath him with his razor-sharp fingernails. Pewter eyes glared relentlessly into the small blue orbs that sank away into the man’s face as he whispered warnings directly into his skull. The mind of this mortal was as malleable as wet sand and when the Telepath applied the right amount of pressure, he shaped it into a palace to rule from. Those piercing blue eyes became dull, scuffed over like old marbles, and his arms dropped to his side like a marionette.
“I’m sorry,” the janitor repeated. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
And just like that, the bewitched mortal turned his back and left the white-haired Vampire to his devices. He took a moment to survey the area. The room had a chessboard floor and about fifty shelves fanning out from a central reception area. Six or seven people were sitting at tables, working. A man in a thickly knitted sweater was reading Fisherman's Week. There was a woman prowling through the hardback books, running her manicured nails along the spines as she passed. Myk ran his fingers through his hair, teasing his scalp with his talons, and sighed deeply. He hadn’t the foggiest idea of how he’d gotten here or why, but he did know that he had to get back home before his prey escaped…