ever feel like a plastic bag [nathaniel]

and there is no salvation at the hands of the fates and there is no design to whom death comes to take and the faces in the vapour

they
are
lies

Playing the role of the drunken idiot has gotten easier with time. Not that Nathaniel has anything but time. He stumbles out of the apartment building one of his role's family friends own, closing the door behind him, and then leans against the wood for a moment. He'd fed to half-fulfillment here, but there's no pleasure in such a tame hunt. (There's equally no need to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, or dab at his chin with a handkerchief. A gentleman knows how to feed neatly and properly.)

The streets are emptier than he'd like, and Nathaniel finds himself wandering them longer than ideal before the sight of a human he feels comfortable feeding on emerges before him. Athletic frame, confident step—that's going to be succulent blood. He can feel the fact in his bones. But there's a ritual to be maintained, and his fangs stay slid firmly away, although the temptation to bind her with ropes of midnight and drain her like; what did that child he fed on earlier tonight call it? Like “shotgunning a beer, bro.”

But that's not who he's playing right now, and rules are important. Establishing the scenery is a matter of moments. He slips shadow for a moment, races two blocks ahead of her, and then slips back into his body, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, head lolling down on his chest. Nathaniel bites his bottom lip quick and sharp enough to bleed, runs a hand through his hair, scores a gash down his face with one quick slice of a shadow knife (and promptly sets about to holding back his regeneration), and slips into the part, starting to walk, clumsily and weaving side to side, back to cross paths with her.