He rests, sound asleep in his bed, dust gold hair lay haphazardly against his head, clearly messed from his long night of sleep. Deep brown eyes are closed behind eyelids and dark lashes as the were boy slumbers. No doubt he would remain asleep for quite some time, the boy rather lazy by design unless it came to partying, in which Marcelo was certainly the life of. Of course, Marcelo had been alive for over 5 centuries and he was rather particular about his party scene. College parties, high school parties, the typical areas you would see someone Marcelo's age attending, they just didn't cut it. The jackal boy has raged with aristocrats, drank with Shakespearean actors, even had champagne with a Duke. He was a little above natty light and shots of Jose Cuervo. Of course, he didn't always entirely evade these parties, the women were easy, the guys stupid, and the alcohol endless. In fact, just last night he had attended a college party, a frat party (though this was not Marcelo's favorite things, but jackals are not above scavenging.) He had come onto the scene, dressed simply in skinny jeans, black vans, and a grey tee with a few horizontal black stripes. Now, Marcelo was not the tallest of guys, especially considering in Sacrosanct all the guys seemed to be damn giants, but give the kid a break, he stopped aging at sixteen, had he been left to grow naturally, he no doubt would have gained at least a half a foot more. But, Marcelo would rather be short and alive, than wellâ€"dead, which had been his only other option at the time.
What he lacked in height, he made up for in attitude. Forever a sly grin curling his lips, only making his features more handsome with an air of smugness to accompany such. He gave off the impression that he was dangerous, but not so unmanageable that a girl couldn't tame him (of course this is far from the truth, for many have tried and all have failed.) This illusion to cover up just the sort of mongrel he really was, performed perfectly and so each of those beautiful females that came to him, attracted by the sheer wildness of him, each thought that truly she could be the one to tame the jackal, to make him submit. Marcelo could not say he felt guilty when each time their efforts came up empty handed, nothing to show for their efforts except waking up in a bed all alone, the sheets beside them no longer warm.
He hadn't intended in staying at the party, despite his extroverted nature engaging with anything that moved, it would seem he was entirely enjoying himself, of course Marcelo was prone to boredom behind those charming smiles and words that flitted towards them. Beautiful .faces, spry with young confidence flitted towards him, saying hello, playing with his dusty golden hair (which he absolutely loved, he was a canine after all.) But a jackal was not a ferocious predator like the lion or panther, or even the noble wolf. A jackal will scavenge, so rarely going for the healthy, confident, and strong. Rather, Marcelo seeks the weak, defeated, the easiest of targets. Sure, the chase and the hunt were always fun, but Marcelo would take a meal willing to hand themselves over instead of catching his own any day. It was all too easy to set mocha eyes upon his prey, sickly, weak, and all too wonderful.
Oh...wait... I think he is waking up....
The boy with the lightly bronzed hair stirs from within the covers as a large yawn opens his mouth wide, no doubt expelling a tremendous amount of morning breath, but there lies a total lack of caring in that department, for the moment at least. His mocha eyes finally flutter open underneath those tawny lashes. He gazes around his hotel room, obviously pleased with himself for having such a fine room with which to stay until he was able to find his own place, which he hadn't been doing a very good job of, since that would require some actual work and Marcelo has certainly been all about the play rather than a work. Since his arrival there hasn't been an evening he has gotten in before three in the morning, sometimes with his arm slung over a girl, or sometimes stumbling ungracefully into his room. The other night he had been fumbling with his key in the door for nearly twenty minutes before someone took pity (or rather probably grew incredibly annoyed) on him and came out of their room to help him open his door. Marcelo was digging Sacrosanct currently, it has a nice vibe and a great party atmosphere, and he has already had more than his fair share of pretty faced encounters. Though, he was dead set on them staying just that, encounters. He wasn't about to be tied down, hasn't been for over five centuries, no point in starting now.
He stretches lazily, brown eyes looking to the time. Yep, nearly two in the afternoon, sounds about right. The boy liked his sleep, that much could certainly be said. Marcelo had yet to really explore the city during the daylight hours, better late then never, right? With a lazy grin etched on his lips, the were boy rises from his bed and begins to pick out clothes for the day. He ruffles his bronzed hair, letting it lay in almost a messier position than it was in before. Though, Marcelo thinks it makes him look roguishly handsome. He pulls on some mossy green shorts over his black boxer briefs and a turquoise tank with a pattern across the middle of it. His feet slide barefoot into a pair of grey low top vans. The finishing touches are a pair of ray bans that slide over his ears.
Tussling his dirty blonde hair once again he then exits his hotel room, making his way down the stairs and out the main door. Those dark, chocolate eyes spot a swanky, upscale bar and of course, the young man needs to immediately stroll over to it. Opening the door and moving with all the quietness of the scavenger and thief like that jackal he was truly on the inside, his steps lead him up to the bar, flashing a near beaming grin at the bartender. "A screwdriver if you will please, ma'am." Mmm, nothing like vodka and orange juice to wake you up in the
morning afternoon. "You need to get out of here kid, you cannot be in here, we don't serve alcohol to minors," she says rather forcefully and Marcelo feels almost a low growl in his throat. Brushing that hair like brandished gold once more in frustration. "I have an ID," he says, producing one of his many fakes. The woman grow embarrassed before during him a drink and Marcelo rolls away to sit at one of the emptying tables to enjoy his drink, those rich chocolate eyes roving around the area, searching for anything that may be of entertainment to a jackal in disguise.
Marcelo Lucas Rumeirimage by Vincent van Zalinge