The dim not at all interesting black-and-blue hue of twilight was descending and a petite figure watched it from her vantage point perched atop a crate left by an alley. A cigarette, the red orange glow visible from a few feet away, was held with ease in her hands. She’d been smoking things for a while.

Stringy blonde locks blew around her pale face, chocolate brown eyes- one slightly lighter than the other- following the hair. A large jacket, baggy jeans and a white “wife beater” adorned the small woman making her only appear more fragile. Combat boots thudded rhythmically on the crate and her eyes flicked upwards to watch the sun disappear behind the buildings. Night time at last. Finally it would get interesting.

(bleck, short. x.x)

It's not uncommon to find someone, at least one someone, lurking in an ally in the middle of the night. After all, never has the entire city slept all at once. Something was always amiss.

And it most certinally wasn't uncommon to find Morose out and about at this hour. It had been rare for him to be seen during the day in the first place, but now, after what had happened the previous week, he was never seen in the daylight. So, here he is, trudging along, coming back from a nightly walk with his close friend Jex.

Morose's walk is more like a slunk. His steps are meassured and perfectly timed, absolutly silent despite the heavy boots he wears. His shoulders slouch in, his hands are stuffed deeply into his pockets, and his head is lowered. The man has flaming red hair and abnormaly blue eyes. That was a rare combination, red hair blue eyes. His hair was spiked in the back and long bangs hung in his face to eaither side, eluminating his pale skin and lips. He wears a pair of baggy black pants, the seams and pockets are lined in red, the waist fits his hips, he is skelitally thin, though still healthy and lean with muscle. A red fishnet shirt hugs his skin, a black shirt over it with a cross cut out over the chest. That ever pressant trench coat, even on the hottest night, he's found in that leather, ground length jacket. He wears a leather collar and wrist cuffs as well as black eye liner and lip liner, his eyes shaded all around with red, lips colored like blood.

He sees her. And he stops in the middle of the ally. He's tall, six feet three inches, too tall, and he looms like a shadow. This was his first night actually walking the city as a vampire, this was his first encounter outside of Enyo, his sire, and Jex, his friend. And he was starving. No fangs can be seen, hardly any tail tale signs of vampirism shows on him aside from the paleness of his flesh. He says nothing. Standing still, as if he hoped that if he didn't move she wouldn't see him.

((You don't mind my joining do you?))

|ooc: Not at all|

Of course, she didn’t see him. It wouldn’t be fun if she did now would it? Avian dearest was too busy concentrating at a rodent of some sort that was scurrying around by her dangling shoe laces. Fascinating little thing, so obsessed with the pursuit of food it was completely unawares to the fact she could jump down and squish it. But she wasn’t -that- mean.

Crimson nails came up to rake through her hair in an attempt to put the unruly mass back in its place, with no such luck. The idea of club-hopping was ever present in Avi’s mind, because she was always bored.

She hadn't seen him. And if she had, she wasn't letting him know.

Morose licked his lips, not even smearing the red painted to them. He felt like a statue, frozen and unmoving, completely imobile. The middle finger on his left hand twitched only slightly. He was fighting the urge of a habbit he'd picked up from Jex, wishing to push his fingers through his hair. He's found this to be a little bit of a stress release.

After a moment, his eyes moved away from her face and down her body, a little rodent scurrying about her feet. He closed his eyes, took a step backwards and turned on his heels, ready to walk away from her, from this place. He knew that venturing out already was a bad idea. Especially since he was so hungry, so weak.

Some Vampire eh? He changes his course away from a lone woman because he's hungry. Shouldn't he be moving towards her?

Yes, one would expect for a vampire to go towards a lone person rather than away. However that’s what all the years of Nosferatu and Bram Stoker horror movies have drilled into our brains. And she was hard core Unnish, she would go insane before believe vampires and magic existed, that just makes it fun.

But ignorance has to stop at some point, either the rat made same indication of another presence or her ever roving eyes caught some movement for now she was looking straight at him. Spending most of her time in the “not so nice” areas of town Avian had learned to quickly analyze everyone that could become a possible threat. And everyone was a possible threat.

He didn’t appear dangerous, and ignorance is bliss so she was happy enough for now though she continued to watch him.

Eyes are on him.

He feels like an actor doing his first play. Center stage, alone, the room is quiet, and all eyes are on him. He does what the average stage fright actor does. Morose Riddle freezes, his own blue eyes on hers. He listens to his heart beat and then, like the actor, regains his composure.

Though it seems as if he has gained composure and gathered himself when he turns halfway back towards her, his head cocked to the side just slightly, he's still stiff, still worried about what might happen. He doesn't want discovered, and he doesn't want tempted. He was hungry but so far he'd been able to ward that feeling away, but only God knows how long he could keep that up.

Thin fingers come to wrap around the granit cross hanging around his neck by a leather strap. He watches her the way she watches him and tries to relaxe, to pretend he was still human, to interact with a human the way he used to. The cigerette smoke sifting in the air could be smelt, it smelt horrible.

As of now the cigarette in her hand was forgotten, though the caressing plumes of smoke that flew up from the cancer inducing stick put her at ease. She had done much worse to herself; a cigarette was like those lollipops they give to little children at banks.

And now with him watching her it was her turn to tense up, feel a bit awkward in spot light. Outwardly she showed no signs of discomfort, she merely moved back farther on the crate and crossed her legs Indian-style.

“Hello.”

She could be friendly enough.

No answer, not yet. Not that he couldn't answer her. This is just how Morose has always been. Stage fright is gone.

He remained where he was for a moment longer, taking her in this time. Before he'd just looked, glanced, and was going to leave. Now he was taking in her appearance, storing it to memory. His hands still deep in his pockets, Morose took a slow lingering step, then another. But the way he did it, it looked casual, comfortable.

Two feet from the crate he stopped, blue eyes on the cigerette between her fingers. He was never a smoker, once in a while when stress overwhelmed him, but other then that. Now he didn't know if it'd even do anything. He didn't even know if he had to breath.

"Good evening."

“I guess you could consider it good.”

Pessimist to the core, if she had a car the bumper sticker “Shit Happens” would be plastered acrossed every available surface.

Seeing the other person up close brought to her mind the image of one of those B-movie vampires, though she ignored it. Drumming her nails on the crate she allowed the cigarette in her hand to fall to the damp pavement and slowly burn out. It seemed everything in life slowly burned out.

Morose's eyes followed the the cigerette down to it's grave where it took less time to burn out in the dampness then it would have elsewhere. Even after the orange glow at the end had been extingushed, his eyes remanined on it. Pessimist she was. He was not. He was not opptimestic either though. Morose just was, as Jex and Enyo had found out. It doesn't take long for one to realize that Morose's first impression of solomness goes further then just first impressions.

"Seems you're in the same frame of mind as I this night."

His voice just was, like everything else about him. It was plain like him, but somehow held something different, a purpose. Like he had something to look for, to live for. He didn't just exist and live and die like everyone else. He had a reason outside of 'fear of death' to keep living, and his voice and eyes showed this....this and fatigue.

She shrugged and shifted her weight around, hair rearranging itself at angles that defied nature and hair brush logic. She needed another cigarette, or alcohol, at this point the nicotine patch couldn’t save her. However it wasn’t nice to light up and puff away like your life depended on it in front of someone you just met, no one had to remember proper etiquette.

“I live in this frame of mind, it allows for fewer surprises. By the way, I’m Avian.”

Introductions were better late than never.

He shifted around, even as she did, stepping closer and extending a hand. His fingers are spidery, long, thin bones attached to a thin hand that's attached to the thin arm that disappears into the black leather sleeve. Still, his boots have no sound to accompany their steps.

"Morose Riddle."

What the hell kind of name is that? Morose meaning upest or morbid, should not be a name. But for his background, his history, it suited him. And who knew if Riddle was really his real name.

"Life might get a little old if you keep it up. Have you lived here long?"

If she hadn't, then she seriously didn't know what lurked around at night in this city. If she had, maybe she was one of those lurking things.

She shook the proffered hand, hers small in comparison but worn from an unknown work.

Have you lived here long?

Seems like an eternity, but of course she didn’t say that. It would be almost like admitting a weakness. No, she hadn’t been here long but she was one of those things that went bump in the night.

“Only a few months.”

"I see."

He nodded. His hand is cold, clamy, completely foriegn to him. Even he does not like the feel, still he's not used to it, to being so cold all the time. Hand released and it quickly slides back into his pocket, burrowing deeply. Now what? He wasn't good with this conversation thing, especially outside of his terff, outside of the cemeteries.

Morose shifted his weight to one leg, pulling the jacket closed over his obscure outfit by the pockets.

“How long have you lived here?”

Stupid question, but it kept awkward silence from attacking. Avi noted the others movements, and made note of the unusual temperature of Morose’s hand.

(crappy ass short post, writers block is the evil)

((It happens to the best of us. And hey, it got the point across right.))

Morose looked away from her and down the damp ally from where he'd come. His blue gaze contrasted greatly with the color of his hair.

"Few weeks, maybe two months."

No. He'd not just moved here. He wasn't staying eaither. He was a bum who, until he'd taken on the task of bringing that homeless bum Jex back to helth, hadn't even bothered to get a home or hotel. He was...a vagabond.

"Where?"

Do you live. At least he was attempting human conversation now.

“Some apartment I haven’t even been in yet for more than five minutes. I doubt I could find it.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, it didn’t matter really. She was never really comfortable with the fact that something was rightfully hers, over time she had become to used to stealing what she needed.

(I have to go for the night, but I'll be back on tomorrow)

He nodded. It sounded vaguely firmiluar. He himself had gotten a temporary appartment not to long ago and so far, he'd spent one night in it alive and one night in it, undead.

"Sounds firmiliar."

He shifted his weight to the other leg, his thin body shifting with the weight. Maybe a one sixty-five weight, he was all skin, bone, and little lean muscle. He looked down to her dead cigerette.