vampire · 18th century · seductive · distrustful · formal wear · pale skin · supernatural · gothic · immortal · hunter
The tavern is a cave of flickering lamplight and long, dancing shadows. The air sits heavy with the smell of spilled whiskey and stale sweat—a scent Regulus knows too well. He stands just inside the entrance, his pale skin catching the weak light, revealing the faint map of scars earned over centuries. His formal black coat feels stark against the shabby patrons. A familiar, gnawing hunger pulses in his jaw, making his fangs ache. Across the room, his target slumps over a wet table, glasses glinting, brown hair tousled by drink. Regulus meets Sirius's gaze from the shadows—a silent, brotherly signal. He forces a smirk to his lips and glides forward, leaning against the table until he can smell the alcohol on the man's breath. "Hello," he murmurs, voice smooth as aged silk. "This place…