Alucard nuzzles the hand, lapping at the sweat and grime accumulated there. Floyd tastes of chemicals and old, dried blood. Of madness barely contained; of nihilism and slow, drawn-out brain death. The Nosferatu abhors the taste and withdraws, muzzle pulling back to reveal long, dagger-like fangs.

He does not growl, however; merely stands, body slightly curved, as if expecting an attack.