Sometime in 1879 — The Jinxed Jackrabbit, London
Earlier, he'd done a deal under the table (and played a game of cards at the table) with an acquaintance of his in the corner of the pub. The acquaintance had left a while ago; Ishmael had stayed, thinking he might while away the night here. He was fairly inconspicuous in this corner, with his back to the wall, his movements unhurried and his mind enough at ease that the place wasn't going to be filled with Ministry officials any time soon.
At ease enough; there was a faint throbbing of thirst at the back of his mind and the back of his throat. There always was. It wasn't bad tonight, not yet, but even the scent of the ale sitting full in front of him was utterly drowned out by the smell of blood in the air. No one was bleeding, but Ishmael could still smell it; could hear every pulse in the room; had, almost indelibly, the imagined taste of it on his tongue.
He cast around for something else to listen to than the cacophony of human heartbeats (like too many ticking clocks in a room), and by chance, his attention focused on a young man over at the bar. He was getting a drink, exchanging a few words and a coin with the bartender, along with some quip about making rent.
Ishmael smiled.
He watched the man head back over to a table - no; he was no more than a boy, really, young and rangy and slightly scruffy - and waited a while longer, until he'd finished his glass. Leisurely, Ishmael strolled to the bar, taking his own drink with him and ordering another. With them in hand, he reached the stranger's table, and slid the new one across. "Here," he said casually, and closed his mouth to offer a half-smile.
Kieran Abernathy
At ease enough; there was a faint throbbing of thirst at the back of his mind and the back of his throat. There always was. It wasn't bad tonight, not yet, but even the scent of the ale sitting full in front of him was utterly drowned out by the smell of blood in the air. No one was bleeding, but Ishmael could still smell it; could hear every pulse in the room; had, almost indelibly, the imagined taste of it on his tongue.
He cast around for something else to listen to than the cacophony of human heartbeats (like too many ticking clocks in a room), and by chance, his attention focused on a young man over at the bar. He was getting a drink, exchanging a few words and a coin with the bartender, along with some quip about making rent.
Ishmael smiled.
He watched the man head back over to a table - no; he was no more than a boy, really, young and rangy and slightly scruffy - and waited a while longer, until he'd finished his glass. Leisurely, Ishmael strolled to the bar, taking his own drink with him and ordering another. With them in hand, he reached the stranger's table, and slid the new one across. "Here," he said casually, and closed his mouth to offer a half-smile.
