In some ways, he's far too gone to even accept what metaphysical truth there might be, so as much as if an unjaded Santino met death his head might explode, he's far too set in his Nihilistic ways to panic too much.
That being said, he glances at Death with somewhat keen interest.
She doesn't feel human, nor does she really look it. But then again, neither is he.
"I like them. Humans. They make these horrific weapons, and wipe each other out, and let children starve--and then you look and see that these guys in Florida who robbed a house listened to the family's request and returned the urn that held their son's ashes. Tiny moments like that."
That being said, he glances at Death with somewhat keen interest.
She doesn't feel human, nor does she really look it. But then again, neither is he.
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But mostly, with skin pale as bone, paler than human skin ever was or could be.
It's a different sort of interest in the look she shoots back at him.
It's not nearly as curious, but it's attentive.
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Something metaphysical behind her presence, something- different.
He stood and came over, moving fluidly.
"Good evening."
There's something common, almost familiar to her.
The Vampire arched a beautifully formed eyebrow. "Have we met?"
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Yes her eyes smile.
Of course they have.
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Santino laughed. "I would imagine so. My name is Salvatore, and it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss....?"
He's lieing, of course, but everyone has aliases.
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She knows it.
And her eyes say it, but she's not calling him on it. Not yet, anyway.
"Death."
They're not meeting. Not really.
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Far from strangers.
Something about her, elusive like missing parts of his memory. Maybe she's who she says she is, and just maybe she isn't?
Santino's dark eyes slipped from hers to her drink. "I would think this sight would be somewhat ironic."
In some ways, he'd love to believe that she's the one cleaning his trail of destruction, but in others he's incapable.
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She doesn't clean up after her brother.
Little brothers drive you nuts without picking up their messes.
The second statement gets a grin and a tune hummed, briefly.
Isn't it ironic?
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On the other hand, she's probably had to deal with quite a few who've seen him.
"Would you care for another?" He offered, eventually, as if the style and manners so well built into his personality had suddenly reappeared.
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Yes. She has.
But she's not judging. That's not for her.
That's what comes after.
"Sure. Bar knows how I like them."
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Santino moved to the bar, placed money on the surface and returned with a glass of red wine for himself and another White Russian for her.
"What brings you here, if you wouldn't mind me asking?"
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That doesn't mean they'd like their gods if they met them face to face.
"I have family here," simply, and the f is almost upper-case as she says it.
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"That must be interesting." Santino replied. "Or in the very least, difficult."
Santino doesn't have a family. Not anymore, not really. She's already met them, after all.
"I find the people here interesting."
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"What do you like about them?"
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He shrugged.
"There's something curious to humanity."
Not that he's admitting to be otherwise.
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"I like them. Humans. They make these horrific weapons, and wipe each other out, and let children starve--and then you look and see that these guys in Florida who robbed a house listened to the family's request and returned the urn that held their son's ashes. Tiny moments like that."
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