He does, in fact, drink (meaningful pause) wine.
It's been a very long time since Ruthven found himself within the (admittedly warm, pleasant, and comfortable) walls of Hollisters. In fact possibly the last time he'd been here was prior to his most recent death. He remembers the place fondly nonetheless.
He saunters in, not (despite his icons) in an Edwardian suit but quietly tailored trousers and cashmere sweater, doing that irritating vampire thing where he's just ever so slightly more graceful than he ought to be. It's the kind of trait that gets you beat up in certain parts of London if you are not, as Ruthven is, easily capable of tying someone's thigh in an overhand knot.
At the moment he's more interested in Armagnac than gross bodily harm, however, and he slips into a booth and orders. He's waiting for a guest.
He saunters in, not (despite his icons) in an Edwardian suit but quietly tailored trousers and cashmere sweater, doing that irritating vampire thing where he's just ever so slightly more graceful than he ought to be. It's the kind of trait that gets you beat up in certain parts of London if you are not, as Ruthven is, easily capable of tying someone's thigh in an overhand knot.
At the moment he's more interested in Armagnac than gross bodily harm, however, and he slips into a booth and orders. He's waiting for a guest.