Over the countless years that Madison had found himself with his particular condition, he had come to discover several things. As vampiric lore reiterated time and time again, his survival largely depended on ingesting blood. It didn’t matter if it entered his body through IV or mouth, if it was fresh out of a vein or from a bag, or even if it was human or animal (although he had found that the former of the two did a far better job of nourishing him). It was also true that food did little more for him than eating paper, but he had discovered that certain substances did hold [i]some[/i] effect. Alcohol, for instance, was still something he was quite keenly familiar with.

Caffeine was yet another. And seeing as he had spent most of the night poring over his research, a little pick-me-up seemed like just what he needed. Humming brightly to himself, Madison turned the street corner, into his local coffee shop(seeing how close it was to his office, he tended to frequent it more often than not), and up to the counter. 

[color=#0A8558]“Hello again, Gloria,”[/color] Madison chirped. [color=#0A8558]“One café miel, please. To go.”[/color] It took little time for his order to be whipped up- slow day, by the looks of it, and even less for him to pay and take the first taste of bliss and cinnamon. He turned to leave, but before he could even make it halfway to the exit, he noticed something. 

His wrist was burning. 

Perking up, Madison rolled down his sleeve, then glanced up. In all his drowsiness, he had forgotten that today was the day. The pain of the marking served as a sort of radar as the vampire wandered about the shop, sipping absently at his drink as he did so. The pain soon led him to a young woman bent over a pile of papers, and, with a certain sheepishness, he cleared his throat and spoke.

[color=#0A8558]“Excuse me, ma’am. Your name wouldn’t happen to be Stefany Raterfall by any chance, would it?”[/color]

[@ineffable]

[hr]

[color=#BC6101]“Shit!”[/color]

Cursing, Stride dabbed at the fresh smear of paint on her canvas with a bit of thinner, watching the misplaced streak of red slowly fade- along with most of the tower she had made beneath. [color=#BC6101]“Comin’!”[/color] She called, glaring daggers at the canvas over her shoulder. It would be hard to redo what had now vanished from memory alone, but there was no way of getting around it, either. “Give me a second, a’ight? Just- fuck- hang on a sec!” 

From outside of the apartment, Zephyr would be able to hear the sound of wood grinding against wood, a string of rather creative swears that would make a sailor faint, the clattering of things hitting the ground, more shouting, and the “click” of a something shutting before, eventually, the door swung open. Stride gave the man standing before her a quick glance-over, squinting at him through her goggles. [color=#BC6101]“Yeah? What d’ya need?”[/color]

She was dressed casually- a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans- but the mask and goggles did a well enough job of hiding whatever expression she might have held. There was no sign of paint whatsoever on her, thankfully. 

Her wrist was also burning like hell, but Stride was distracted enough to not notice for the time being. 

[@Daemanis]