Yes, a presence, formerly speaking. Louis had spoken of his own maker having a scent, which is the kind of thing Louis might just say, citationless behaviour straight from a YA novel, and if it's true, if people can be sussed out via something a little more olfactorily ineffable than a favourite cologne or hand soap, then Daniel-as-vampire certainly hasn't been around Armand long enough to pinpoint it out.
Blood, first. Likely the guy who's bled through his shirt. Then something else, earthier, and a sharper note that's like cigarettes but isn't. Burning, dry.
A touch to the shiny surface of his coffin. To the hanging curtains, which had been pulled back enough so that the light of an afternoon sun might peek through and warm the opposite wall. His laptop, idle on the shitty little desk even a nice hotel room provides.
Eventually, however, beyond these touches (nothing on the computer, although he could probably run something to show its activity in the past twelve hours, much like he can on the book critic's grey matter), nothing terribly out of place. Just the impression of his presence, ghosting through, withdrawing.
no subject
Yes, a presence, formerly speaking. Louis had spoken of his own maker having a scent, which is the kind of thing Louis might just say, citationless behaviour straight from a YA novel, and if it's true, if people can be sussed out via something a little more olfactorily ineffable than a favourite cologne or hand soap, then Daniel-as-vampire certainly hasn't been around Armand long enough to pinpoint it out.
Blood, first. Likely the guy who's bled through his shirt. Then something else, earthier, and a sharper note that's like cigarettes but isn't. Burning, dry.
A touch to the shiny surface of his coffin. To the hanging curtains, which had been pulled back enough so that the light of an afternoon sun might peek through and warm the opposite wall. His laptop, idle on the shitty little desk even a nice hotel room provides.
Eventually, however, beyond these touches (nothing on the computer, although he could probably run something to show its activity in the past twelve hours, much like he can on the book critic's grey matter), nothing terribly out of place. Just the impression of his presence, ghosting through, withdrawing.