Echo's jade eyes narrowed slightly at her bemused expression, though be couldn't entirely blame her for her sense of entertainment. He must have looked quite ridiculous, and certainly more than a smidgen petty. Imagine! The descended of one of the most renowned and feared Vampire Lords cowering before the crack in the curtains, bundled beneath the covers of a measly Witch-woman's bed like a caterpillar pre-metamorphism. Woe the shame Diomedes would suffer should he witness his bastard son now. Disappointingly enough, there was little to no chance that the Dhampir would sprout butterfly wings and fly away no matter how long he remained cocooned in the sheets, however much he'd have liked to.<br/><br/>The Estonain's lepidoptera-induced musings were only put to emphasis when Seria, having whisked the drapes firmly shut, sat up and began sliding off the mattress. The top layer of Echo's linen hidey-hole went with her, which she had draped about her in what he assumed was an effort to conceal her glorious body from his watchful gaze. He wasn't sure why she bothered; he was a creature of night, after all, and his light-sensitive eyes had had no troubles thoroughly exploring her every sensational dip and curve amidst their passionate midnight escapades, in spite of the pitch blackness of the room.<br/><br/>Absent-mindedly his tongue flickered out to glide over his lower lip as his hungry gaze followed her about the room; a testosterone fueled mind imagining vividly the absence of the cloth coiled about her. Were there not a hoard of slumbering Vampires almost certainly buried beneath a neighboring garden, he might have made some effort to coax her back into bed. Regretfully, however, too much time had been wasted in snoozing, thus Echo refrained, and though his bright green eyes had faded to an inky olive in the heat of desire, he merely smiled and inclined his head in a small nod as Seria announced that she wished to cleanse herself before their day began. Unlike mortals Echo's body ran at room temperature, so he needed not perspire the same way as one who required a steady pyrexia. Unless he were covered in something unsavory, like sour blood or Vampire ash, which smelt terribly, then showering wasn't necessary.<br/><br/>Irritably rubbing his sore eye against the back of his fist Echo sat up, the sheets pooling about his waste as he did so. Immediately his exposed torso began to tingle uncomfortably, and the dull ache in his throat flared to a burn. Though the curtains were drawn securely it was not the most satisfactory protection, and it certainly did not defeat the fact that the Dhampir was still half-starved. No matter how many tricks Seria had up her sleeve, unless Echo could sink his fangs into a substantial amount of blood,then he was going to prove weak and vulnerable no matter how well shielded from the sun he might be. And that would simply not do.<br/><br/>They would make it to the city as quickly as they could, and hunker down early within one of the more respectable accommodative dwellings. If he played his cards right, Echo could be recharged and ready for action before sunset. Of course, Echo had never been much good at card games – something he had learnt fairly early on, and had ceased any endeavor to continue the practice after loosing his favorite horse to a blacksmith during the 1860s - and singling out a willing victim, particularly the less seedy types, was inconceivably difficult before midnight. Humans were so suspicious these days, and of each other, rather than those living among them, wearing their faces and sharing their beds. The Supernatural were no longer the harbingers of fear. It was the deranged axe murderer they locked their doors too, now.<br/><br/>Huffing indignantly, Echo resigned to burying himself beneath the covers once more while he waited for Seria to return. If he was lucky, she might just be willing to knock the top of his thirst... Maybe.