Dinner was irrelevant to Azaziel. Eating was a biological function that he at times enjoyed, but never allowed to get between himself the work he did. So, instead of heading downstairs for a dinner expertly prepared by Marchand's fine cooks, he was holed up in his room, reading, and writing. He had moved his desk to the middle of his room, greatly cutting into his absent roommates personal space. Flanking it, were two books held open on sheet-music stands. They were titled 'A colloquial take on Familiars' , and, 'Treatise on Blood Magic' respectively. A final book was perched in the front. Its human leather binding marked it as a genuine copy of the Necronomicon. He sat cross legged in his chair, in aught but his boxer-briefs. 

On the table were several pieces of parchment beside a measure of Heparin in a clear vial. Separate from these, were two stacks of paper, one had very obviously been written on, while the other stack blank, aside from the one he was currently writing on. His writing drifted between haphazard scrawling, and deep, deliberate strokes. 

Zaze's free hand moved up to his mouth, bringing the pocket pancake into biting distance. All the dinner he needed.