Rarely did Cadmus haunt the hallowed halls of the pseudo Goth club The Poison Rose these days. He had always appreciated the symmetry to the club's names, a fragile representation of every nuance Creation could muster within its delicate petals, so very fraught with the promise of an irreversible finalisation. Somehow, the two fit perfectly together, bound in a waltz that could certainly spin for the eternity perceived by those incapable of understanding what true eternity was in all it all its terrifying connotation.
This time Marlow greeted him at the door, his immediately supplication to the silent Vampire evidenced in every subtle nuance of his body, right down to the involuntary twitching of that of a teen turned youth, so every eager to please at any cost.
And cost it would indeed, scoffed Cadmus Pariah, studying this young man whose every fibre already belonged to him without any question whatsoever.
"I will have both - "
But the Pariah was interrupted by this upstart. "Oh oh, yeah, the owner said that nothing was too good for the famed Cadmus Pariah. I - I know about you, though I've never had the honour to actually meet you. You're like our night club's very own royalty."
Leaning into Marlow, his aquiline Elder's nose against the rancid moisture's bursting through the human one, Cadmus gritted his teeth with unbridled disgust.
"I built this club on the blood and bones of those such as you," he whispered, his voice more a thought lost to the din of the club's music. "Long after the maggots have made their lurid meal of your eyeballs deep within the Earth, The Poison Rose will dance and sing, and worship, and celebrate the Blessed Dark...all in my name. No kindly announcement need be made of this most secret and sacred court that shall be held tonight. I hunger for blood, I hunger for flight, I hunger for that which both bring a seemingly endless bounty of wonder. But what I hunger for most is the look of shock on the faces of those realising that at the very end, they were nothing but meat for the beast, inescapable in their rhapsody at the moment of death, when one gives over to that from which there is no hope, no escape. Now, run along little rodent. Bring the throng to me, there's a good one, that's a good lad."