The Brucolac is only surprised that this didn't happen sooner. When he tastes the familiar leather-salt tang of Doul's presence in the air, he melts closer into shadow, giving himself a moment to mentally list all the best curses he can think of. They all fall short of the situation. In fairness, he's not thinking so much of Doul himself as of what Doul's presence means, because if there were ever such thing as a harbinger—

Fuck it. Time to go and be statesmanlike. At least he'll be—no, the Brucolac had been about to think someone to talk to, but no. He fills up his lungs just to sigh. When he slides free of the shadows which stick too closely to him he spits on the floor—out of distaste? for luck? because the company of certain people inspires him to crassness? who knows—before stalking towards Doul's turned back.

Under no impression that he'll be able to alarm him, he nonetheless flits in and out of sight rather than just walk over, appearing all too suddenly at Doul's shoulder.

"Doul."