If he had half-hoped being in a demonstrably bad mood would have been sign enough for Monty to stay away, it had been for nothing because in he waltzed anyway, full of snark. It was one of the things Ishmael usually liked about him, but - right now, it was just nettling. Fuck.
He rolled his eyes at the first set of questions, scoffing aloud in contempt. What did Morales think he was, a fool who needed telling? Like he didn't know to hunt. He'd been doing this a hundred bloody years! Long enough, too, to have developed an informed outlook of his own on the alternative lifestyles some vampires led, like a vampire was somehow made to be a vegetarian. Not that animal blood much qualified them for that, either, however arguably less "immoral" it was - and that was not to say Ishmael hadn't tried it, in years past or on nights like these, when the rumblings of his appetite were hard to ignore and a mangy city fox might be enough to see him eke out a little longer before a proper meal - but he had long mocked anyone he encountered who tried to live by such a diet too seriously. It couldn't be done on animals alone, that much was self-evident. And it was not an existence worth one's bread and butter; whatever you tried, animal blood was tasteless and bland - and, admittedly, had always left him headachey and unsatisfied, pouty and predisposed to complaint.
Not so much as he was now, but he didn't expect animal blood would do any good towards staving off this either, the well of hunger in him that was deepening by the hour, and made worse by the lingering nausea. There was a little less snark in Monty's last question - or maybe Ishmael just hadn't been focused enough to hear it - but he gave in and granted him a real answer this time, halting in his fruitless search to fall up against the bedroom wall. Tucking a hand listlessly at the back of his neck, he leant his head back against the wall with a dull thud that didn't make him feel remotely better.
When had he eaten? "Tonight, technically," Ishmael intoned, not sure he had the energy for the condescension he would have liked to convey with it. "Had some trouble." Both in finding willing people, and then - "Didn't go down right," he explained thickly, gesturing at his throat with his free hand as if it might conjure up some bile or illustrate how sick he felt, like he could cough up the blood that had been so wrong. "I just - need something to get the taste out." It was dead outside now, and would be until dawn broke again, but perhaps he could actually wait it out if Monty stopped asking questions.
He rolled his eyes at the first set of questions, scoffing aloud in contempt. What did Morales think he was, a fool who needed telling? Like he didn't know to hunt. He'd been doing this a hundred bloody years! Long enough, too, to have developed an informed outlook of his own on the alternative lifestyles some vampires led, like a vampire was somehow made to be a vegetarian. Not that animal blood much qualified them for that, either, however arguably less "immoral" it was - and that was not to say Ishmael hadn't tried it, in years past or on nights like these, when the rumblings of his appetite were hard to ignore and a mangy city fox might be enough to see him eke out a little longer before a proper meal - but he had long mocked anyone he encountered who tried to live by such a diet too seriously. It couldn't be done on animals alone, that much was self-evident. And it was not an existence worth one's bread and butter; whatever you tried, animal blood was tasteless and bland - and, admittedly, had always left him headachey and unsatisfied, pouty and predisposed to complaint.
Not so much as he was now, but he didn't expect animal blood would do any good towards staving off this either, the well of hunger in him that was deepening by the hour, and made worse by the lingering nausea. There was a little less snark in Monty's last question - or maybe Ishmael just hadn't been focused enough to hear it - but he gave in and granted him a real answer this time, halting in his fruitless search to fall up against the bedroom wall. Tucking a hand listlessly at the back of his neck, he leant his head back against the wall with a dull thud that didn't make him feel remotely better.
When had he eaten? "Tonight, technically," Ishmael intoned, not sure he had the energy for the condescension he would have liked to convey with it. "Had some trouble." Both in finding willing people, and then - "Didn't go down right," he explained thickly, gesturing at his throat with his free hand as if it might conjure up some bile or illustrate how sick he felt, like he could cough up the blood that had been so wrong. "I just - need something to get the taste out." It was dead outside now, and would be until dawn broke again, but perhaps he could actually wait it out if Monty stopped asking questions.
