[He comes in, cut in the color of blood, red soaked into dark tailored clothes and splattered across his skin. It sticks in his hair, brown strands plastered against his forehead and temple. Pearly-white mixes with crimson, implying injury on his own person, but it’s hard to tell where or how. Vincent doesn’t say; is wordless when he enters the establishment, putting his weapons to the side as per the rules. They’re messy, bladed edges still red and his pistol flecked with the same hue.
A silent stride to the counter, seating himself on a stool. He’s not sure why he’s come here, other than perhaps there’s a need for familiarity in the wake of such violence, something to fill his human (not human) spirit up when it’s been hollowed out with base, surreal instinct.
Monts is here, too. He can see her working, her back turned to him. Vincent only sits and waits until he’s noticed. His aura, the tinge of other that always surrounds him, repels curious gazes because he wills it, nothing more — he cannot abide by social niceties right now.]
Sort of a, sort of wildcard
A silent stride to the counter, seating himself on a stool. He’s not sure why he’s come here, other than perhaps there’s a need for familiarity in the wake of such violence, something to fill his human (not human) spirit up when it’s been hollowed out with base, surreal instinct.
Monts is here, too. He can see her working, her back turned to him. Vincent only sits and waits until he’s noticed. His aura, the tinge of other that always surrounds him, repels curious gazes because he wills it, nothing more — he cannot abide by social niceties right now.]