Astarion Ancunín (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sixfeetofdirt) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wondrousplace2023-09-14 12:37 pm
sixfeetofdirt) wrote in wondrousplace2023-09-14 12:37 pm
Venetian vampires for Quentin
Venice seems like a completely insane place for a vampire to establish himself. Of course the narrow side streets and lively tourist trade make for good hunting, but the canals have enough of a tidal current to make them lethal. It's the equivalent of a human setting up shop in a town where all the roads are on fire.
Perhaps Cazador Szarr had this in mind when he established his palazzo in a quiet quarter of the city, centuries previous. Dangers abound, yes, but competition for territory is only noteworthy in its absence.
It's December. This makes the city busy and obnoxiously festive, but it also means the earliest possible sunset. The sky is a bruised red-purple, and there are still people working the last hours of their day jobs as Astarion moves through the crowds of those more fortunate. He feels eyes on him. God knows he's distinctive: silver curls, pale skin, red eyes. Most people in this day and age - those bold enough to ask - assume some kind of albinism. When he was first turned, their guesses were less scientific but actually more accurate.
He'll go to a bar, one of the many that he has on a rotating list in his mind, so that he never visits the same place more than a few times a year. It's never really too early to find them crowded. From there, it's easy: find someone alone, or at the edge of their social circle, separated from the herd. Not really having fun. In search of a listening ear, a kind word.
It's worked for centuries.
His route, however, takes him past a shopfront he sometimes lingers at. Vintage books and old maps and lithographs. He would never buy anything for himself, but occasionally he browses. It's still open.
Five minutes won't kill him.
He crosses the threshold, greeting the proprietor in fluent Italian, and agrees he'll call on her should he need any help.
Perhaps Cazador Szarr had this in mind when he established his palazzo in a quiet quarter of the city, centuries previous. Dangers abound, yes, but competition for territory is only noteworthy in its absence.
It's December. This makes the city busy and obnoxiously festive, but it also means the earliest possible sunset. The sky is a bruised red-purple, and there are still people working the last hours of their day jobs as Astarion moves through the crowds of those more fortunate. He feels eyes on him. God knows he's distinctive: silver curls, pale skin, red eyes. Most people in this day and age - those bold enough to ask - assume some kind of albinism. When he was first turned, their guesses were less scientific but actually more accurate.
He'll go to a bar, one of the many that he has on a rotating list in his mind, so that he never visits the same place more than a few times a year. It's never really too early to find them crowded. From there, it's easy: find someone alone, or at the edge of their social circle, separated from the herd. Not really having fun. In search of a listening ear, a kind word.
It's worked for centuries.
His route, however, takes him past a shopfront he sometimes lingers at. Vintage books and old maps and lithographs. He would never buy anything for himself, but occasionally he browses. It's still open.
Five minutes won't kill him.
He crosses the threshold, greeting the proprietor in fluent Italian, and agrees he'll call on her should he need any help.