singillatim | open / and I've been putting out the fire with gasoline

"I suppose the closest thing you could describe me as now is a vampire," Dorian dryly remarks, knowing how insane this sounds. "But I don't drain blood. With the gift that the Darkwalker gave me, I drain their...essence, maybe? Their soul? I don't know. And I don't want to do this," he quickly interjects. "And I've been trying to keep this under control. But it just makes me so hungry and after a while, I just...I can't take it anymore."

And that part, at least, he's telling the truth. There's a little hint of desperation in Dorian's voice. That hunger burns inside him, pushing him forward to do things that most people would view as monstrous (but though he doesn't want to admit it, Dorian just views as survival. He'll burn through everyone here if it means he stays alive.)

He sounds like Hickey and Thomas feels his stomach drop, his chest contract, his entire body go cold.

But he can't be angry. There's something in him that can't - take it.

He wrinkles his nose. "The Darkwalker did this to you?"

Dorian nods. There's a moment before he continues to talk.

"I had a dream, back in March. The Aurora was buzzing, shining bright as everything in the town hummed with life. That Enola woman was there. She seemed...overwhelmed. She apologized that she couldn't be there and said we were doing good. I don't know why I didn't ask her any questions—maybe I knew I was dreaming? Or maybe everything happened so fast."

Dorian continues to talk. His voice is calm, as if he's narrating a story instead of talking about something that happened to him. "Everything went black. Enola was terrified. I didn't know then what that meant and when I turned to her, something dragged her away. It pulled her into the earth, as if to entomb her. And then there was only me. In the darkness."

Best to tell Thomas all of this. He's started this story, he's got to finish it. Besides, there's something...nice about vocalizing this, about telling someone about that horrible dream. Other people must have had it too, Dorian's learned enough to know that by now. But as he has no idea who has this same gift...well, it's nice to get a scrap of empathy, even if he's pretty sure this conversation is going to end with Thomas punching him again.

"I know what the Darkwalker looks like now. It has three glowing skulls, like some kind of dog. The jaws dripped what I thought was drool, but I know can't be regular saliva. Spit isn't...thick like that was. It lunged at me, snapped at me, for a moment I was in the world's wort pain, more pain that I thought I could possibly endure...and then I woke up. I was so wrecked that I slept nonstop for the next day. But the day after that, when I got up, I noticed that when I was out in the sun, I felt like shit. I can't stay out too long, otherwise I'll outright collapse—I timed my travel here so that I could spend the sunniest parts of the day in the mines. I also noticed the hunger then. And it's grown ever since."

Thomas narrows his eyes again, but it's not at Dorian this time. It's at the Darkwalker, at the creature that has plagued them over and over again for over a year. He can't escape these creatures, it seems.

Instead of saying anything, he turns his back and walks into the kitchen, coming back with a small block of ice wrapped in a towel.

"For your face," he says softly.

Dorian remains seated, not wanting to move or do anything until Thomas returns. When he does...this is unexpected. Dorian blinks slightly, obviously not surprising the ice.

"Thank you." With a little nod, he puts the ice up to his nose—hopefully this will reduce the swelling.

He wants to ask 'what do you plan to do with me next'—after all, Thomas can easily rat him out to the entire community. But he keeps that thought to himself. Instead, Dorian looks over at Thomas, waiting to see what the man does next.

Thomas folds his arms across his chest. "You have to tell them what you did. If others are like you, then you need to - determine another plan." He shakes his head. "I'm not going to kill you."

He wasn't sure if Dorian understood that was a possibility.

But consider this: he doesn't want to do that. He'd rather they push all this under the rug and not deal with things? We can forgive a little murder.

Dorian nods, a little frown on his face, before he points out, "I'll tell people in person. But there's not Facebook or Twitter or anything like that here—and I highly doubt that many people read the bulletin board. It's entirely possible that a few people will miss the memo about what someone like me can do. Hell, I didn't learn about the Forest Talkers until a few days ago and I've been here months."

A round-about way of saying 'don't come for his ass if people don't hear about this.'

Those sure are gibberish words, but Thomas nods along as if he understands.

"You can call a meeting. You can post it. But that woman was a person, Mr. Gray, and you took her life from her. That may not mean anything to you, but many people do care about others."

But he doesn't want to.......

Jopson is absolutely going to have to get onto Dorian's ass about this because he will be dragging his feet like nobody's business.

But there's something about Jopson's words that irritate Dorian. He frowns for a moment before pointing out, "I'm not callous. The fact that someone has died does mean something to me." Just not as much as his own existence does.

He doesn't believe him at all and shoots him a dark look.

"And if I hadn't come along? What would you have done?"

"I don't know."

And that, at least, is an honest answer. Dorian's got a plan for dealing with corpses back in Milton. He doesn't really have a plan for dealing with them in Lakeside.

"All I know is I'm not the heartless monster you want me to be."

"No, Mr. Gray. I fear you might be something much worse." He folds his arms across his chest. "Stay here until the evening. Then leave."

Dorian rolls his eyes in a bit of an overdramatic fashion, before he nods. "Leaving in the evening works for me. Hopefully we won't see each other again for a while."

He comes over with a kettle to set against the fireplace.

"I hope we do. Once you've told people."

"Look, I'm a man of my word. If I say I'll tell people, then I'll tell people."

Just slowly. One at a time. Not unless provoked. No big announcements.

"I don't know what sort of man you are," Thomas argues, waiting for the water to boil.

"Then ask me about myself," Dorian says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "If I'm to be stuck with you here tonight, we might as well make the most of it. And since I doubt you'll be fun, idle chit-chat it is."

He glances over his shoulder again. "What do you consider - fun?" He pauses. "Here, of course."

What an odd question to start with. Dorian frowns a little, obviously not expecting that. He mulls it over, thinking to himself, before,

"Most of what I consider fun I can't find here. So I guess it's reading. I've enjoyed having time to just sit down and read."

Dorian had brought it up, and now Thomas is beginning to see why.

"You don't usually have time for that?"

Dorian shakes his head. "I travel a lot. I like to keep busy. Sitting around and doing nothing is a luxury for my life."

Thomas pours them both tea into cups and hands Dorian his. There's nothing to sweeten it, but he doesn't even really offer. "What fortunate that you live a life of idleness, Mr. Gray. Where do you travel?"

Dorian takes the cup, takes a sip of the tea, then winces a little at the bitterness. It's fine? It's fine. He's certainly had worse.

As for the question,

"Oh, all over the place. All around Europe, of course, but I've ventured out to America for a bit—I took a trip to Iceland once. I saw the Northern Lights."

And got mauled by a werewolf, but he's keeping that to himself!

"I've settled down recently, at least as much as someone like me can settle down. I work at an art gallery."

The wince pleases him for a lot of reasons. Most of them petty.

"We see the lights here," he grumbles softly. "What sort of art?"

"Modern, mostly. Contemporary. But I've an appreciation for the classics." There's a moment's pause before Dorian asks,

"You're retro, right? One of those Victorians? Have you heard of Walter Sickert? Or is he past your time?"

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