Disclaimer: This is a rewrite of Thirst.
That night, when the troughs were opened to the Common Bloods...
Monroe had never enjoyed beer. Or wine, or spirits for that matter. She'd always viewed alcohol as something of a lubricant, a tool to make things go her way but the danger had always been in the imbibing and loss of her own judgment. While sober-Monroe was the savvy sort whose gilded tongue had whispered revolt from waking dream to lockstep unity, inebriation brought out the very worst parts of her impulsive personality.
She lifted the curved glass, to her mouth, musing how its shape reminded her of some cartoonish version of a buff man. Smacking her lips at the bitter, watery flavor of pilsner, Monroe Carter found herself disliking booze as much in death as in life. Fortunately for her, the Requiem's stipulations meant her body didn't process it, and it was only with an investment of her dwindling
vitae
that she could mimic the Blush of Life and burn it away within her. As with wine so with bread, should she choose to, but the Damned were as Tantalus and found no satisfaction in food.
Such fleshly desires had long fled her with the last breath she ever took. Like a nightmare that had been forgotten once she'd awakened from death, like moths scattering at a disturbance. The murky part of her mind where dwelled the Beast and her own conscious Ego became blurry at times of hunger. For her to appear as something more than an animated corpse, leering with golden eyes she had to utilize what blood the Overseers had left her.
"Would you fuckin' throw already?" came a tobacco scarred, Gulf-State accented growl from nearby, before a subdued -thnk- from a dart flung into the circular board near her perch. She traced its path through space and time backwards to the one who'd cast it...appraising him and turning her nose up at his lumpen aspect, same with his drinking buddies. Monroe was running on red fumes, but she'd not reached the point where she'd throw herself at someone whose blood would make her wretch. These poor people and their overworked, injured bodies were poisoned by unclean food and metal-contaminated drinking water, making them low-rate fare that left her feeling vaguely ill after feeding.
Like eating a greasy, bottom-grade burger to do away with a hangover, both the feeding itself and the digestion afterwards left her belly roiling at the thought, and yet...she curled forward in pain as a starvation pang shot squeezed her guts, dignity and will faltering before her Beast's internal shriek. Monroe's teeth itched, her tongue felt covered in some sort of flavorless icing that could only be washed away by the syrupy warmth of a living being's vitality.
There had been a
point
to what she'd been through, however - she hadn't allowed Isidoro, Shira, Clementia and the others to dig their tombstone-cold fangs into her wrists, throat, and thighs just so she could drink behind the alleys of dive bars. An eternity of one night stands with truckers and factory workers who thought they were getting lucky, a twenty slipped to a prostitute for a sip at her throat wasn't tolerable.
Neither, however, were starvation and the consequences of letting the Beast rise to the surface. Monroe was already entertaining the possibility of quitting the bar, taking her hunt behind one of the ramshackle factories where shipwrights smoked, ate their midnight lunch, or sought comfort with working girls on their breaks or after the third shift. Humiliating...maybe she was too proud for this existence.
Seated alone at a small wooden table tucked in a corner booth at Radcliffe's Tavern, the amber-eyed Brujah was already digging around for her wallet when she noticed activity - the piss-weak lighting dimmed ever further, and bleary eyes were turning toward the makeshift stage near the back. Senses attuned for the humid night brought the confines of this little concrete hole into bright relief. Radcliffe's sometimes had live music playing, usually one of the regulars who was sober enough to scrape together enough tips to dash said sobriety against the bartop afterwards.
This was different. A short, broad fellow whose fingertips reached slightly past his knees was dutifully unpacking a drum set on stage. A blonde mohawk punctuated his forehead to the back of his skull like a row of exclamation marks. His honest face made her think of a grumpy dinosaur, a leather vest worn over a band T-shirt whose sigil she didn't recognize; a swirling firestorm centered around a wolf's skull, biting through chains.
Her appetite piqued, Monroe decided she'd at least stay to listen, since Radcliffe himself had dragged his ponderous form onstage to introduce them. "Alright alright, everyone keep your knickers on...so these guys're from outta town, don't remember where, don't care."
"Chicago, asshole," someone shouted from somewhere off stage. A low chuckle rose in her throat as starvation coiled within her.
"Yeah yeah like I said, don't care. I didn't pay for 'em, so put your hands together - or don't - for..." he squinted at the notecard in his hand. "What kinda name is this...? Instrument - "
"You have to say it in capital letters," spike-mohawk admonished him from behind his snare drums.
"For fuck's sakes...INSTRUMENT OF AGGRESSION, fuck you," he crumpled the notecard up and hauled himself back to his bartop. A pair of folks who
definitely
didn't come from around here got up from their seats and ascended the stage, bringing their instruments with them. Monroe's eyes tracked what she saw with almost mechanical smoothness...the bloodthirsty thing in her dweomered,
vitae
burning heart stopped its pacing, its atavist eyes leering through her own.
The bass guitarist was a beanpole of a woman, taller than Monroe by a few inches...her skin a shade lighter than her own, more akin to latte. Bass-girl had let her locks solidify into dreads that dangled down her back like cords. She wore the same kind of T-shirt as Mohawk-boy. Her bluejeans were a few sizes too large, and she wasn't shy about revealing she was going commando either. Her eyes were bloodshot and red; Monroe could practically taste the THC winding through her brain stem. She both admired and disdained her bravery.
The lead guitarist and singer, however, hooked her attention like nobody else in this hole. Her lips parted slightly, and she felt her fangs prick the tip of her tongue in anticipation. Putting her glass to her mouth, sharp teeth clinking on the edge, she scrutinized him. He was also tall, cresting his bassist by centimeters, bristly black hair worn short and styled in loose spikes. Rocker-boy was deeply tanned, the light glinting off his tight skin. The aquiline hook of his nose, the almond shape of his eyes and that wide mouth reminded her of some roguish prince from a desert land, filled with onion-dome towers, flying carpets, ensorcelled animals. She chided herself for her overactive imagination.
He shucked a stud-shouldered leather jacket, revealing the same T-shirt as the others wore, the sleeves torn off. His body was, clearly, warrior-hard, almost devoid of fat to her detail-hungry gaze. Her attention danced along the shape of his biceps, his deltoids, the cords of his forearms beneath leather bracers. "Fuuuck," she muttered, pushing her braids back from her eyes and running her nails along her almond-dark skin. Monroe resisted the urge to let her gaze travel downward from his studded belt, holding up a pair of fitted black jeans, to his bulge...she looked anyway, pursing her lips as she admired the convex shape of his fly.
