sanguinarii

The rim of the porcelain cup was cracked, and dirty. Small chips in the paint, invisible to the human eye, coffee stains around the aged mouth disgusted the drinker. The rust-tinted tea sloshed against the sides, resting in the cracks. Setting down the cup, he turned away from it. It held no appeal to him, neither in taste, nor value. He didn't need it; it was a prop, the only use of it was to make sure that he was appearing as 'normal' as possible. Not that a man with waist-length hair that was as black as midnight could appear relatively 'normal'. Circling his finger along the rim, he peered up at the woman at the counter from under his th