There was nothing new to doing this, and not a great deal of excitement in the meal. A stranger’s blood was always something, but blood was blood -

But there was a first time for everything, and in Ishmael’s memory, this was exactly the first time anyone had tried to make smalltalk over dinner. A bit shit being a vampire! Soup! Enjoying the ‘soup’ as he had been, the thought was just too much to take. He snorted in shocked laughter before he could help himself, and so violently that he nearly choked, and a bit of blood sprayed out his nose. It might have been embarrassing, in a situation that wasn’t already this weird.

That didn’t help him stop laughing, either. So Ishmael sucked up a last mouthful of blood and released the fellow’s arm from his fangs, pressing a hand over the small wound to stop it spurting out from there, from having stopped drinking so unusually abruptly. “Sorry,” Ishmael said (for the sneezing out blood), wheezing still, and his shoulders hunched in amusement. “Soup!” he repeated, shaking his head, delighted. What a nutcase.

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The following 1 user Likes Ishmael's post:1 user Likes Ishmael's post
   Ursula Black

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It seemed there were things more traumatizing than being someone's dinner such as watching your own blood shoot out of someone else's nostrils. He felt a little lightheaded and he wasn't sure if it was seeing the blood or losing the blood but he regretted the lack of seating available to him. Next thing he knew the guy had retracted his creepy teeth and was apologizing to him. Since when was there etiquette for a dinner party like this? Politeness seemed weird after that.

So he guessed he wasn't going to be murdered after all? He'd surely feel the full relief of that later but right now he was too dazed. "S'alright..." He tightened his grip on the pouch of money. He didn't really see why 'soup' had amused him so much, it was basically soup just not in a bowl but then maybe having the same soup for every meal, every day gave you a weird sense of humor. "I prefer stew m'self," he muttered, wondering if he could just say goodbye and leave now.

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Eyeing up this magnificent set eh? MJ sold her soul to Satan's graphic designer. I wish he'd take mine too.

Ishmael didn’t know why the blond looked so very disconcerted - even with the snorting out blood - because there was little more disconcerting in life than one’s food source talking to you. While you ate. But they’d soon get the hang of it. And - if he hadn’t died in the middle of being drunk, nor passed out in shock, nor run away the second he was freed, screaming his head off... then really, by all accounts it had gone remarkably well.

“Splendid. Now if you don’t tell me your name, next time I’ll call you Stew,” Ishmael said, with a joking laugh - but really if this strange young fellow needed the money and could be tempted into donating blood again, Ishmael would seek him out again, and he’d probably get further not calling him Stew.

He shrugged at the boy nonchalantly. “If you’re inclined to donate again, that is.” He liked his food free range, after all.

And if he got a sideshow of comedy with the next meal, well Ishmael could live with that. Metaphorically.

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Next time? He'd not even though about doing it again. Did he have a choice? Maybe. Maybe this vampire wouldn't murder him for refusing but maybe the state of his own finances would kill him first if he did refuse. "I s'pose I could." He was doing it then... He still felt a bit woozy but it was definitely passing. He could do this again. Anyway it would be nice to have a regular source of income again. "The name's Spryly."

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Eyeing up this magnificent set eh? MJ sold her soul to Satan's graphic designer. I wish he'd take mine too.

Ishmael smiled. “Excellent.” He clapped the young man lightly on the shoulder - ostensibly in a friendly gesture of thanks, but also half to check how sturdy he was feeling on his feet after a vampire feeding. To be fair, Ishmael hadn’t taken that much from him, given that during-dinner-conversation, so he ought to be alright. After all, the last thing he wanted was his blood donors having to wind up in hospital with all sorts of questions asked.

“Then I’ll look you up sometime, Spryly,” Ishmael said idly, sure that between his own contacts and Monty’s that he had tabs on half of magical London. “You going to be alright to get home?” (If the thief had one, of course.)

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Spryly wasn't expecting the clap on the back and as such started a little. "Yeah, yeah, it ain't far." Perhaps with money like this coming in he might be able to have a 'home' again, or at the very least a roof over his head that he could call his own. When next time would be though, that he had absolutely no idea and he had no real desire to ask either. This guy seemed mysterious and confident enough that he didn't really doubt that despite his vagrancy he'd be found one way or another. If it was very soon then he'd be thankful for the money and if it was a long time coming then at least he'd have had time to prepare himself for it. Now seemed like a good time to make himself scarce but he found the idea of waiting for the vampire to go before moving more comforting than turning his back and leaving first. It probably wouldn't make any difference if he was doomed to be murdered by him but he'd rather die with a false sense of security.

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Eyeing up this magnificent set eh? MJ sold her soul to Satan's graphic designer. I wish he'd take mine too.

More shock than faint-headedness, Ishmael gathered. Fine. Not a problem. Besides, some staggering and they’d only think the young blond-haired lad had a limp - which might be relatively true - or was a little drunk.

If he wanted to be prudent, he could... keep an eye on the youth on his way home, scout out where it was just in case he ever needed to know, say. But Spryly had been robbing pockets, so might well spot a tail. And probably needed Ishmael’s money desperately enough to do this again, so he probably wouldn’t talk, or blow things up.

Of course, if he did, Ishmael wasn’t opposed to ripping out his throat. Not morally opposed, anyway. Bit messy, but.

“Thanks for the soup, Spryly,” Ishmael said, and sauntered off on his way.

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