[b]Dylan Stroud[/b]

“Why of course,” Dylan purred, saddling a stool next to her. He tapped a slender finger upon the bar and met the tender’s gaze, “And a crimson rush for me, darling.” Using the colloquial term for blood and well drink, one of the wonders he discovered in Meridian. The man nodded, and began preparing their drinks.

Then his attention was fully on the lady before him. Now he could see a brilliant streak of cobalt through her hair, an unnatural delight against her burning locks. She was an amalgam of self-assured fire and arcane mystery.  Glistening teeth showed through his crooked grin. 

“The stars have left me all alone, and the moon is a fickle lover,” their drinks came, and Dylan nodded his thanks, barely turning from her, “I am here for company, much the same reason as anyone else, I would imagine. I search for singular souls amidst this surreptitious situation.”

A new track came upon the jukebox, this one terribly scratched, causing a groan from a large part of the patrons. Dylan broke his intense stare and took a sip from his drink, the taste on a single malt whiskey and the coppery pang of blood not entirely unpleasant, but still caused him to purse his lips.

When he looked back at the woman, it was with furrowed brow, as if pondering a deep thought, chin resting upon clenched fist.

“[i]‘My hopes are dying, while on dreams relying, I am spelled by art’[/i],” He intoned, “Whole truth told: I am a poet, searching for his muse. However, lady luck must have smiled upon me, for I think that perhaps I have found her.”

He straightened up, shaking his reverie, and split his face with a fanged grin, his eyes seeming to twinkle, “Just listen to me go on!" he gave a theatrical sigh and chuckled, his voice turned to treacle and chocolate, "Tell me, my dear, where do [i]your [/i]interests lie?”