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Leo is not new to being a vampire of the Red Court. He's not a noble or anything, but he's been around for a very long time. He's reached the ripe old age of 600, outliving his noble father and the vast majority of his bloodthirsty sisters, almost entirely by being a filthy coward. He has no pretensions to the blood of milk-pale virgins; he's perfectly fine getting his dinner for the week under a bridge. He occasionally keeps slaves, but only rarely. Most of the time, he occupies himself with reading, and painting, and delicious, delicious blood. On occasion he indulges in a good alleyway lurking.
This is one of those occasions. Chicago's alleyways are not particularly well maintained, but they're better than the slums of Toledo in 1632. Leo likes them. They're meditative, and often contain convenient homeless populations.
"Oh, mildly enough. I don't go down Main Street opening throats left and right, you know. It'd be awfully conspicuous, for one thing."
It may be noted at this point that the alleyway has no exits.
"Um," he says, recovering. "Seems like a poor deal for the vagrants. And/or beautiful young lads."
"Well, it's a very pleasant process for them. Vampire saliva is like bottled happiness. Really, it'd be crueler to let them live in a world without a regular supply of it. Are you talking to your cat? Actually, is your cat talking to you? That's adorable."
The cat meows.
"Her name is Catherine."
She meows again, somewhat more at length.
"And I'm not repeating that."
"Don't they? People can't usually understand them, but I don't think that's the same thing."
"No, cats don't talk. I thought that was some kind of shapeshifter or a pygmy malk or something, are you telling me that's just- a cat? That talks?"
"All cats talk," says Milo. "You can understand them if you're a dragon, or the cat's own personal witch, or in my case just very determined. Do cats not talk in this world?"
"Cats don't anything in this world! They're dumb animals that eat mice and piss on your furniture and run about like idiots! There are things that look like cats that talk and do any variety of things, but as I said, those are uncommon and besides which they aren't actually cats."
"...I think that might be more unsettling than your ambiguously murderous eating habits," says Milo. Cath jumps from his shoulder into his arms, and he pets her soothingly.
"Eh. There's too many weird things around to get really freaked out by them. Still. Talking cats..." He shakes his head.
"Non-talking cats. How would you feel if you stepped into a world where vampires weren't people?"
"Sounds interesting, honestly. There's certainly kinds of humans that aren't people, though I don't believe they're naturally occurring."
"Yep. Called thralls, or 'Renfields' if you're puckish. They're humans who've been psychically mauled by some vampire- different kind of vampire, Black Court- until there's nothing left in them but rage. They're about as intelligent as the average dog, far as anyone can tell. Nasty stuff."
"I don't think I like this world very much," says Milo. "No offense. You personally have been perfectly nice and helpful."
"Oh, thanks. It's not a nice place for mortals, no. Unless you're a wizard or something, that's a nice gig. Or was, 'til the war started and my people started murdering the shit out of them all. Less nice nowadays, I think. High mortality rate."
Cath declares herself sufficiently soothed and climbs back up to perch on his other shoulder.
"I'm not a fan of war. I like not being dead. Antagonizing wizards... not a great policy for that."
This elicits a withering look. "Oh, don't get on me about my eating habits. What are you, a one-man Society for the Ethical Treatment of Filthy Vagrants?"