[In a glossy, dimly lit bar nestled into one of Highstorm's niche little entertainment districts, Liem sits by himself in a quiet booth, tucked away in one of the establishment's many private little nooks. The spot is a popular venue for vampires, who visit the place for the drinks, the company, and of course the occasional bite to "eat," but he hasn't visited to slake his thirst for blood. Instead, he broods over a small collection of empty drink glasses, his posture still erect as ever but his expression vague and distant, as though he is seeing something other than the darkened bar around him.
Those who are familiar with the man may note something strange about him — aside from the strangeness of finding Liem in a bar meant for vampires, drinking by himself. He has always been pale, but he looks more so than usual, right down to bleached and fading colours in his hair and clothes. His eyes are dull and unblinking, like two stones; his hair, perfectly coiffed, does not move even slightly when he turns his head to speak to a passing server. He looks like an exquisite artwork, a sculpture worn and left bereft by the passage of years. His movements are slow, but mechanical, propelled only by the ghost of past habits and the weight of his desolation.
If you draw near, he will turn his face toward you (his shoulders don't move a single iota) with a look that is heavy with exhaustion, but as hard and cold as any he's worn since arriving at Kenos.
(Hairline fractures spider over his skin in the low light. The tip of one of his ears is missing, and the edge of it looks as rough and unyielding as shorn stone.)]
for Makoto / Gen — bite bite bites
Those who are familiar with the man may note something strange about him — aside from the strangeness of finding Liem in a bar meant for vampires, drinking by himself. He has always been pale, but he looks more so than usual, right down to bleached and fading colours in his hair and clothes. His eyes are dull and unblinking, like two stones; his hair, perfectly coiffed, does not move even slightly when he turns his head to speak to a passing server. He looks like an exquisite artwork, a sculpture worn and left bereft by the passage of years. His movements are slow, but mechanical, propelled only by the ghost of past habits and the weight of his desolation.
If you draw near, he will turn his face toward you (his shoulders don't move a single iota) with a look that is heavy with exhaustion, but as hard and cold as any he's worn since arriving at Kenos.
(Hairline fractures spider over his skin in the low light. The tip of one of his ears is missing, and the edge of it looks as rough and unyielding as shorn stone.)]
What do you want?