[The smell of the blood is thick in his nose; when Mitchell swallows, he can practically taste it, and he sort of stumbles forward, thrown off by the sudden confrontation. It will be disgusting, it will be cold and thick, and yet he still wants it. Even cold would be better than nothing. At least it would take the edge off, but he can't.

Instead, Mitchell rubs a hand over his mouth, hard, and tears his eyes away, looking anywhere but at the other vampire.]

Thanks. But I'm-- [It would be stupid to claim being clean when he's practically drooling over someone else's meal of old blood. And there's always that little touch of shame, isn't there, because being clean means being weaker, and he hates that he thinks in those terms, that the thought even occurs to him--]

The bagged stuff wouldn't do me any good. [And, darkly, he adds:] Better not t' sit out in the open like that, even if there's no peasant mobs storming the castle.