The sounds of the Florence streets pursued Damon into the fitful sleep, chasing him from clubs with their pounding music to a salon with strings playing something far more melodious. The press of humanity in the room slipped from a writhing mass of primal sexuality and abandon--an easy hunting ground--to something supposedly more civilized but which he recognized with a sinking sense as a shark tank he long since thought he'd escaped. Velvets and brocades draped over too small chairs, and the reek of unwashed skin layered itself over the sweeter smell of blood beneath it. Glancing down at himself, he felt the disorientation shift in his head again at the familiar sight of his black jeans and leather jacket. Glancing up he scanned the room with a frown.
The Contessina de' Bardi, Cosimo de'Medici's wife, was talking to his father on a corner settee, fan lightly tapping on his arm as she related some story. Guiseppe, Conte di Salvatore, bore it well, laughing lightly when it was appropriate and paying the right amount of attention to the wife of the man he looked to as a patron. Damon felt his lips curve in a sneer, as he turned away from the sight, pushing through the crowd far more easily with his lithe form and without the bother of a sword on his hip. No one took any note of him, despite the leather and denim in place of doublet and hose. Something whispered in his mind that things were off kilter, but he brushed it aside, intent on a hunt of his own that had little to do with society's foibles.
( Cut for length and possible disturbing imagery. Warning: slashy, incestuous content below )![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
