[His father never had to do any of this. It's a bitter thought that always comes to mind during these long, long affairs when Alucard would like to do nothing more than go home. But his father is ancient even by vampire standards, 800 years and change, which means he only needs to be present in a city to bring everything to heel. Anywhere he goes, order follows, because there are 800 years of history wrapped up in just the name Dracula.
He is only twenty and change, and there is no history. There is only the hustle, and tonight, smiling very thinly at every offer of birthday greetings that are even remembered. (Better when they aren't, sometimes it's nice when his age is forgotten.) He's so very ready to be done, and yet here he stands, weighed down by the seventh story of the night of werewolf packs being picked off in the countryside, or new and unfamiliar ghosts fleeing inward for some greater threat has come down the road. Spells not working right because of some kind of interference. They are all things on the edges, but they give no comfort.
On Monday, they will investigate. Three of them, Trevor in the lead because he understands and processes this kind of stuff best. He's born for it, far better than Alucard or Sypha could ever hope to be in a lifetime. There will be results that are half-helpful if they're lucky, and Alucard will then begin the tiresome work of figuring out how to anticipate what is blowing into the city.
The few times he has the chance to look up, the two are easy to find. If not by sight than by Sypha's laugh, because it's so bright and crystal clear. Easiest thing for him to hear in a room, just like Trevor's low grumbles that someone's said something just shitty enough that he can't act out. (And thus neither can Alucard.)
Now is one of those times, two hours into the night and a toast to the full moon that's hanging high above the trees. It mixes with all the floating fae lights that illuminate the festivities, and he'll admit, it's a damn magical sight. Better for the two in the picture, and he focuses on them to the exclusion of everyone else in the moment.]
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He is only twenty and change, and there is no history. There is only the hustle, and tonight, smiling very thinly at every offer of birthday greetings that are even remembered. (Better when they aren't, sometimes it's nice when his age is forgotten.) He's so very ready to be done, and yet here he stands, weighed down by the seventh story of the night of werewolf packs being picked off in the countryside, or new and unfamiliar ghosts fleeing inward for some greater threat has come down the road. Spells not working right because of some kind of interference. They are all things on the edges, but they give no comfort.
On Monday, they will investigate. Three of them, Trevor in the lead because he understands and processes this kind of stuff best. He's born for it, far better than Alucard or Sypha could ever hope to be in a lifetime. There will be results that are half-helpful if they're lucky, and Alucard will then begin the tiresome work of figuring out how to anticipate what is blowing into the city.
The few times he has the chance to look up, the two are easy to find. If not by sight than by Sypha's laugh, because it's so bright and crystal clear. Easiest thing for him to hear in a room, just like Trevor's low grumbles that someone's said something just shitty enough that he can't act out. (And thus neither can Alucard.)
Now is one of those times, two hours into the night and a toast to the full moon that's hanging high above the trees. It mixes with all the floating fae lights that illuminate the festivities, and he'll admit, it's a damn magical sight. Better for the two in the picture, and he focuses on them to the exclusion of everyone else in the moment.]