7th April, 1888 — The Abandoned House
Ishmael yawned - a reflex borne more out of boredom than tiredness, having had no cause to sleep for more than a century. He'd gotten to the house hours ago after a roundabout journey down from Hogsmeade, flooing to a shop in Knockturn and taking the last stretch on foot, careful, as always, not to be followed.
It had been a while after dusk then, and now - he could see through the shutters from his position on the couch - judging by the state of the inky sky, it must be the early hours of the morning. Ishmael cocked his head, heard a bird chirp from down the street. Bloody birds, already. He'd wasted his whole night here, waiting for one - any - of the others to materialise. He was supposed to be the one who wasn't there when they needed him, not the other way around. He'd only been gone a week, and what? Suddenly they all had better things to do.
Perhaps, Ishmael thought, they were out on business. Well, they hadn't invited him; not that he much cared if they had, since he had his own affairs to look into this time. He flicked a corner of the newspaper page back and forth between finger and thumb, but there were only so many times he could read the same article. Terrible murder in Whitechapel. They were blaming vampires - it was hardly the first time Ishmael had seen that. He'd have thought twice about slinking straight down to London if the murder had only been discovered today, but the paper said it had actually happened a few nights back.
So he'd come down to ask around, since he hadn't been able to guess who was behind the attack from up in Hogsmeade, if it was any of his kind at all. Still, he wasn't sure what the situation in town was like, and so had come to the house first, to ask the others if they'd heard anything themselves.
Ishmael scattered the paper away lazily, stretching out with cat-like indifference. He missed sleep, sometimes. What else was there to do to while away the hours? If Monty were here, they might've found a way to pass the time, but -
Eventually, he heard the click of the lock, and footsteps coming in. Speak of the devil. "And where have you been?" Ishmael drawled, though he decided to convey his absolute lack of caring by refusing to lift his head up by more than a centimetre, let alone to sit up.
Monty Morales
It had been a while after dusk then, and now - he could see through the shutters from his position on the couch - judging by the state of the inky sky, it must be the early hours of the morning. Ishmael cocked his head, heard a bird chirp from down the street. Bloody birds, already. He'd wasted his whole night here, waiting for one - any - of the others to materialise. He was supposed to be the one who wasn't there when they needed him, not the other way around. He'd only been gone a week, and what? Suddenly they all had better things to do.
Perhaps, Ishmael thought, they were out on business. Well, they hadn't invited him; not that he much cared if they had, since he had his own affairs to look into this time. He flicked a corner of the newspaper page back and forth between finger and thumb, but there were only so many times he could read the same article. Terrible murder in Whitechapel. They were blaming vampires - it was hardly the first time Ishmael had seen that. He'd have thought twice about slinking straight down to London if the murder had only been discovered today, but the paper said it had actually happened a few nights back.
So he'd come down to ask around, since he hadn't been able to guess who was behind the attack from up in Hogsmeade, if it was any of his kind at all. Still, he wasn't sure what the situation in town was like, and so had come to the house first, to ask the others if they'd heard anything themselves.
Ishmael scattered the paper away lazily, stretching out with cat-like indifference. He missed sleep, sometimes. What else was there to do to while away the hours? If Monty were here, they might've found a way to pass the time, but -
Eventually, he heard the click of the lock, and footsteps coming in. Speak of the devil. "And where have you been?" Ishmael drawled, though he decided to convey his absolute lack of caring by refusing to lift his head up by more than a centimetre, let alone to sit up.
