nicki.
Funny how he, the LIAR, the s p i t e f u l, he whom had avoided all trace of honour by choice ( could he even recall the meaning of the word? ), was the one whom smiled — & he did so with abandon, as he did most things; smiled without care; laughed harshly & whenever the urge struck him —— be it a p p r o p r i a t e or not, be he h a p p y or not. To see the other’s expression, then, RARE as it is, he’ll offer the same courtesy, with the addition of a laugh, though this is of course hardly a P H E N O M E N O N . ❛ But of course. ❜
At such a question, a brow shall rise, lips pursing as he thought for the moment. Whilst it’s true he knows Paris as he does the palm of his hand, something he’s had opportunity to familiarise himself with over more than two centuries, his definition of ‘hunting ground’? He doesn’t particularly expect it to c o r r e l a t e with Vittorio’s own.
He’ll say as much, though rises to his feet. ❛ Come with me. ❜
that was the idea. he watched the subtle rise and walked along side him, fingers flexing at his side. there really was no feeling quite like walking, was there? pretending with the best of their acting abilities to be one of the crowd. a slow and gentle pace that kept them side by side. though Vittorio was nearly a head shorter than Nicki, and his strides were not as practised.
this kind of hunt was different from what he grew up with in the hills of his family's land. there were no soaring pines to weave his horse through or any armor to don. he had no falcons to hold upon his arm and no dog to bark and tear into prey. he had only his fangs, his claws, his cunning and his beauteous appearance. that was enough, of course. it always was.
‘ everyone is always in such a rush. you people really don't know how to relax, do you? ’the city of paris did always smell so awful, as well. there were no scents of bread or cheese or seawater. stale urine, vomit, he could pick up traces of little death. horrible. ‘ was it always this way? ’
