Digone walked off the train and onto the concreat station floor, his healed shoes echo'd thoughout the large empty space, the shops were closed, the newspaper stand had shut for the night, and Romance was left alone in the cold bright area. He had just come to the city before he made his way to a popular area to start, he knew the nature of most of the Vampires he worked with, a little piece of him, and yet no one wanted him. Such thoughs sent chills down the spine of the hunter. There were very little people on the platform, they'd either left already, or they were the tramps that lived down here during the night, trying to keep themselfs warm on the cold hard floor, before 'they' decided to come home. Tramps and the homeless were easy targets for a Nosferatu who was in need, and it was unlikly they would have survived the ordeal afterwards, usually just left on a street corner with some crack sprinkled over them to make it look as though they OD'd, and with so many blood-suckers up in high places, it didn't take much for the cops looked the other way, and if they did...well no one wants to think about that now.

Digone's cold dark eyes scanned the space he was in, the walls were tiled white with a blue stripe going through the centre. He didn't likes the look of this place, naturally he had his blade and a spare gun handy for when the scum would show up, not that he was bother'd who, his cloak didn't have a marking on tonight, so for this evening, it was free pickings for whatever he could find.

Memphis, dressed in nothing but a linen shirt, a pair of faded blue jeans and a set of worn thong sandals made his way into the subway station. An ordinary person may have been cold, dressed in what little Memphis was, at night in the middle of a Canadian winter – but Memphis was hardly an ordinary person. Given, he looked perfectly normal, besides his clothing that is. He appeared to be in his twenties, possessing a thin, short build and having a full head of coffee brown hair which reached his back. Should one take more than a passing glance at Memphis on this particular night, they’d also notice his hair was waxed into dreads and laced with bits of bronze and copper.

The man was, in fact, not a man at all, but something far older. He was probably Demaitre’s oldest vampire having lived for approximately five thousand and fifteen years. Being alive for so many years and having bared witness to much of humanity’s past, Memphis cared little for the affairs of mortals, which he made quite clear as he mingled among the homeless in the subway. He picked them from their benches or off the concrete floor taking them by the hand and leading them into a dance. He would flow from one partner to another, changing his dance steps as he went. With one he would be performing a slow and graceful waltz while with the next he moved into a rapid quickstep. All the while he was smiling, his eyes turning into tight squints behind his rose coloured frameless glasses.

At last Memphis came to stand beside an older man. From what the vampire could tell he was an older gentleman, possessing of some wealth and, looking at the man’s dark cape, on his way to some kind of costume party.

“Forgive me for asking sir,” Memphis purred, looking over the man with some curiosity. “But why on earth are you dressed like some fifteenth century Baron?”