Post by Remy-Antoine Mariot on Feb 10, 2013 23:22:13 GMT -5
Sometimes Mariot could think of nothing more fascinating than the depths of his wineglass. It wasn't a condition--despite what his friends sometimes told him, their eyes full of disapproval as they chided what they called to be his "intolerable drinking problem"--but it was something that could, admittedly, occupy the Mariot Patriarch's attention for long periods of time. Before him, it was relatively unknown how much a vampire could drink before they became absolutely shit-faced plastered, as opposed to just pleasantly buzzed after consuming an "appalling" amount of substance that would easily kill a regular human. It was an accomplishment many said he shouldn't be proud of, but that niggling sense of gratification was there nonetheless.
Not that it did him any good, of course. He hadn't actually liked the complete loss of control, and had told the occupants of his household to never, under any circumstances, let that much alcohol into the house again. That wasn't to say he didn't still drink, just... not that much. Not that much ever, ever again. Besides, it would take a force of nature to get him to give up the drink completely, and even then that force of nature would have to be capable of completely wiping all known traces of alcohol from the realm.
Leaning back in his chair, Mariot tilted his head back, briefly exposing his neck as he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the pub--the laughter of the patrons, the clinking of glasses, and the blare of the human television making up but a few of them. It was a lovely change from the stilted silence of the manor, which persisted even when others were present, and it was certainly more relaxing than the stiff circles the other pureblood families created amongst themselves, the circles Mariot would court to his satisfaction before leaving in search of another, an expensive crystal wineglass in hand with each proverbial conquest.
He may be an alcoholic--or as close to it as vampires could be, of course--but he knew when the attention and opinion of others was important. It was all he had been groomed in for his entire life, after all, and he was capable of putting the bottle down for a few minutes to court a good opinion here and there. It was caring he didn't do, and as some of his own close friends cautioned, that could lead down a dark path.
"You need an anchor," Razael had told him once, sniffing derisively at his glass of wine, his well-bred nose much preferring the scent of a human's blood. "Your self-destructive habits will only bring the Mariot clan to ruin."
From where he sat at the window, drink in hand, Mariot chuckled. Razael may have been an old friend of his, and hence accustomed to speaking down to him in disdain and chiding him for his actions, but he was so unbearably uptight sometimes. Still, the thought of Razael Chelouche, with his impossibly dark hair and equally dark eyes, was enough to make Mariot leave his perch and exit the bar, placing the money owed at the counter before he swept out into the dark streets of London, England.
Perhaps he'd find something out here to better occupy his thoughts.
