These are the sounds of your morning...
A fork against a plate. The clicking of nails upon tiled floor. The sigh of cushions beneath the weight of a man. The pouring of scotch. The sound of a woman's voice -- it has a soothing sound, much like the perfume she wears, it wafts. The sound of a man's voice -- still speaking mostly in grunts and quiet noise, not yet forming words.
But it's not because he's drowsy, dragging his hands against his eyes to squeeze out the dreams. He's thinking. He's waiting. He's dreading.
Davydd sits, more commandeers the space of the chair opposite to the sofa, where the Stricken Toreador still lies. A glass of scotch, neat, is at hand. A booted heel rests on the coffee table, the other on the floor -- one leg outstretched, the other relaxed and wide. His dark brown shirt is button-down, but the top buttons have been left undone, revealing brilliant blue swirls, dragons and hazel leaves at his chest. The cuffs of the shirt have also not been buttoned, and dragons breathing heather, another warring holly, are visible at either wrist. So brilliant, they are quite nearly creatures in their own right.
Green eyes lower and lift from the sleeping form to the form moving in and out of the kitchen. Another night, another round of flaky meat pies. With a hefty sigh, Davydd fishes out his phone. He hasn't worked up the nerve to call. It's still too early. William's probably getting the first fuck of the day in. Who am I to interrupt that?
"Did you want dessert, Davydd?" calls Sandrine from the kitchen. Of course he does. She's already preparing it, but still, might as well check. "There is winter pudding...and..." a pause, "...there are still lemon tarts in here." Nothing like day-old tarts.
"Here, Frik," Sandrine then says, and a tap lands on the floor. A fresh bowl of water. "Coffee?" she then asks, voice lifted enough for her companion to hear, but hopefully not so much to intrude upon the guest's sleep.
At the sounds of voice, the shattered Toreador shifts on the couch. But other than that, she is still silent and sleeping. The varied strands of thoughts running through her brain are keeping her lodged in the dream realm for now.
The odd soft noise escapes her, as though her dreams are disturbed -- no shit? But otherwise, she seems like she's a late riser. Or she's just too exhausted from recent events.
The man's appetite is something of legend. No need to really go into all of it here. Suffice it to say, he proves the old adage that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach. And we all know where a man's heart (and brain for that matter) reside.
"Oes," he murmurs, the Welsh affirmative, and he lifts his glass of scotch. "I'll polish off the tarts now," he rumbles, using actual words. "I'll get to the pudding later." You better believe it. And it's good it just converts into ...whatever it is it converts into... or he'd be as wide as Snowdon. "Coffee would be lovely," Davydd finishes, then mumbles to himself, "... spiked with scotch...damn," he sighs and dials the phone.
"He can be so fucking difficult," Davydd is already complaining, and the number isn't even complete. He looks to Tori again, fiery eyebrows cocking up. He looks her up and he looks her down. No, still sleeping.
Whatever passes between them in quiet brings a verbal response from Sandrine.
"You think she might be...hungry?" Considering the blood she lost. Not that Sandrine's offering, but food is being passed around in one way or another.
"Hmph," she follows, and dishes clank in the kitchen.
No, Tori's still slumbering away, her mind left to wander about on its own without the hinderance of her body. Is she here? Only partly. Other parts are scattered about, wandering in various parts of that Otherplace or the Dreamrealms.
She does not stir again as the phone is dialed or as Sandrine clanks dishes.
She could be. But fuck if I'm going to open up one of my veins. Last thing I need is for her...fuck, the phone is ringing. Maybe I'll get voice mail...to get a good taste of me and go mental. There's almost a snort for that: too late, no?
"I'm open to suggestions. I could call for maid service... oh... hey... good morning to you," he clips suddenly in a higher tone to his voice, like he is asking a question, but the question never follows. "You sound like shite...what the hell happened to you..."
Davydd falls quiet for a few minutes, makes a face, holds the phone out and then rattles off: "I don't want to know...no, no... fuck you I know I asked... Jesu, Gwilym...my flesh is crawling off my bones... look... " There's a chuckle. They sound like brothers. It's probably best they're rarely in the same city, let alone room...
"Maybe she should wake up, Davydd," Sandrine says, despite the man clearly on the phone. "She's been sleeping a while..."
Green eyes flicker from phone conversation, to kitchen, to couch. She's further than his leg can reach. Throwing something at her might not go over well. Fuck it. I'll wake her up in a minute. "Gwilym..." Here goes. "...well, boyo..." an exhalation. "...seems I ran into that bird friend of yours from the Colonies. Victoria?" he remembers her name. "Oes, oes... that one. She's in a bad way, brawd... no, no... she's not hurt," not now, "...not physically... but it seems that something's happened. She's snapped like a dry twig on a hot day."
Green eyes lift again, their attention wandering to the kitchen. Where are my tarts? As he listens, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, Davydd rises from the chair and crosses over to the sofa. "Well... yeah... I can... for a night or two. After that, it may get a little dicey. As it is, I took her out of Tattinger's car..." Or whomever the fuck's car that was. "Psychological... she has lost blood, but... I am taking care of that...she's in good hands, don't worry. Just... maybe you should be here."
Sandrine does enter, the smell of coffee wafting in the kitchen behind. "Gods, you are an impatient man," she breathes, setting a small plate of three tarts on the table next to Davydd's chair. Dressed in grey skirt and white blouse, Sandrine appears paler than usual. She looks at Victoria a moment, then turns to head back to the kitchen for the coffee.
"I will make her a little plate and maybe we should wake her up," Sandrine goes on, explaining a plan. "Does she eat?" she asks.
"Yeah..."
Fingers glide over the young woman's hair. In his bending, dragons are revealed, unfolding, coiling from the brown shirt. He rises, twisting and casting a wink to his woman. You love me as I am, remember? "Yeah...well..." another exhalation, "...she's not going anywhere." He rakes a hand through his hair, eyes going to the ceiling as William is obviously going at him on the other end. "Right... right... aye.." Davydd crooks the phone, looking to Sandrine and shrugging. ** I have no idea... **
"Aye," he says, looking back to the phone. "I'll keep her safe, brawd. No worries. We'll get it sorted. In the meantime, if I ... get anymore information, I'll let you know... my hunch is...that fellow she's been looking for... ain't around..." Period. The End. Finis. Est Terminus. Et Cetera.
Suddenly, Tori stirs, sitting upright on the couch. Her eyes are wide and wild...but still grey....and strange looking.
Fingertips dig deeply into the cushions of the sofa as the Toreador looks around frantically, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Luckily, she likely missed the comment about her fellow not being around. In fact, she doesn't even seem to realize she's in the company of anyone yet... much less two 'anyones'..
"Davydd..." Sandrine says, aware of another's presence. She was walking away from Davydd, after touching his head and hand. But at the turning on of the Tori light, as it was, Sandrine spins about and waits.
"I'll call you back..."
And the call is abruptly ended. Davydd pockets his cellphone and kneels at the sofa's side. "It's alright," he murmurs, "...you're safe and sound... you've had a bit of a wicked night..." Remember? Green eyes lock onto her own, grey today is it. His face is placid. Confident. Even. Hopefully it's contagious.
"Are you hungry?" Davydd asks, still in that even tone. Melodic. Sing-song even. Green eyes don't glance to Sandrine. Not yet.
** William will be here in two nights. They've had some fresh snow, but he should be able to get here. We may need to... send her to a spa or... something...** Spa. Like in the old days when the rich or influential, or those in their good graces, would go off to the country to rest, to recover.
The male voice addressing her draws her attention with a quick snap movement of her head. Looking directly into Davydd's eyes, she takes a moment to remember and to focus...
... right, I know this one. I remember him.
Her eyes seem odd. Not just grey, but the pupil size doesn't match. One's large, the other one's small, almost a pinprick. Gives her an eerie look. An after-effect of the state of her mind, perhaps.
After a long pause, she nods her head and murmurs, "Hungry... yes..." But which hunger is she affirming?
Sandrine goes on to the kitchen, the sounds of glasses and plates rattling rising again. "I'll bring some water," she says, and the spray of water in the sink drowns anything else out for the moment.
Creepy eyes. That can't be a good sign. Fuck. We may have to kill her. Like when Old Yeller came down with rabies. The exterior does not betray the interior concern. He remains placid, easy of demeanor, strong. "I thought you might be. Do you eat? Would you like something?" Or will it be me in a glass? As crazy as she is already, it might not be such a bad idea.
Bring me an empty glass when you come back... I'll give her a bit... His blood? That elixir? She'll blast off into outer space, but she's already halfway there...
She's 'together' enough to wrinkle her nose at the idea of food. "Ugh.. eat? Like food? You're joking... right?" she manages to say, the sarcasm still getting through. At least she's coherent this time. At least for now.
"I need..." To feed. She doesn't finish the sentence, glancing about. There's nothing to select from, really... she wouldn't think of 'hunting' here. She knows who you are. She knows who you know (or at least a one mutual friend). She's insane, but not that insane right now.
Shaking her head, she murmurs, "I can't stomach that stuff, sorry. Where the hell am I?" She is surprisingly complacent and clear this eve. What's up?
She hasn't really relaxed, but manages to stretch out a few muscles before sitting more properly on the couch.
The water quiets, and Sandrine steps through the blonde archway of the kitchen, down into the sunken living room. She crosses the large area quickly, bringing a tray. On it, a small pitcher of clear water, along with two glasses and a small plate. On the plate is a slice of melon, two strawberries, and half of a meat pie, cut into bite-sized quarters.
Oh.
Sandrine comes to a halt at Davydd's side, looking at the tray in her hands. She blinks and turns around, heading back to the kitchen.
Holy shit, she's coherent. That was English. Well, American. The fiery eyebrows cock up and Davydd flashes a grin. "That's more like it," and he rises to the full on Welsh mountain that he is, arms folding at his chest. Dragons coiling, clusters of hazel leaves and hazel nuts evident.
"You're in a luxurious penthouse flat, courtesy of Clan Toreador. It's Sandrine's apartment. I just take up space," Davydd notes. "You spent the night here, and will be spending the next two at least. William is on his way. Soon as the snow clears." Davydd pivots, looking toward the kitchen. Hoping for that glass, while she's coherent.
Glass. Sandrine stops and turns around again. Taking a couple of steps over, she balances the tray in one hand, while setting two glasses and the small water pitcher down at Davydd's tableside.
She must read minds.
A sigh and she heads to the kitchen to do something about the saucer of food.
Yeah, she's coherent, but who knows how long it will last, hm?
Tori frowns, her dark eyebrows framing those freaky eyes. By all rights, her demeanor doesn't suit her appearance.. all wild and weird. Tilting her head to one side, she murmurs, "William? But I just saw... oh. Right. That's good. I want to talk to him." She saw what?
Glancing over, she notices Sandrine, as though for the first time since she awoke. "Oh... right.. I remember a bit now... she--I was quite a handful... sorry about that." Was that a slip?
She's still in a 'mode' from her visit to the dream realms. Reaching up to scratch her head a bit, she looks back at the redhead and murmurs, "So... I'm to stay here until William gets here? Is that it?"
Oh, you know I'll eat it. Me and Rhyddid and Bwci. "Diolch, cariad," Davydd murmurs, he smiles, he leans in to get a kiss but she's too quick. He contents himself with the glass, setting it down on the coffee table. And then he starts to roll up a sleeve. "I think it's for the best. Besides which, we're good company..."
A dragon coils around his right wrist, as if braided there. Nine heather flowers are intertwined. Health. Restoration. The tattoos are vibrant. The detail exquisite. The dragon seems to shifts, writhing, as muscles are in motion in the flexing of a fist.
Davydd brings his right wrist to his mouth, canines extending. There follows a sudden tap of copper on the air. Blood. His left hand brings the glass upward. Blood, crimson, rich, ancient, starts to pool in the bowl of the glass. He is quiet as it flows, a finger keeping the wound open. Eyes half-lid at it.
Sandrine returns, apron off now. The light dims as she steps down again into the living area. "It is no problem," she offers to Tori's apology, coming to take a seat on the sofa's arm next to Davydd. Her skirt hugs her firmly as she folds her hands together in her lap. "As long as you're alright," she explains. "Maybe we can get you a proper room now and perhaps you would like to freshen up? I can have your clothes sent out for cleaning. Same day service, if you wish."
Looking at Sandrine next to her, she murmurs, "I have some things in the hotel... if you're willing to get someone to retrieve them. I won't want to be too much bother... And if I'm going to stay here only a matter of days, I can stick to the couch. Or, back in my hotel room. I don't want to be in the way..."
Then she smells something...
If she had more of her faculties in line, she might have balked at the offer of nourishment from a person who was practically a stranger. Especially after what's recently happened.
But she lost a lot of blood. She's feeling the Hunger set in. And now that exquisite scent of copper and age finds its way to her senses... and it's all she can do to sit still. Her jaw muscles twitch involuntarily as her strange eyes focus on that wrist.
All conversation is dropped and forgotten with her now. She's even forgotten that anyone else is in the room... including Davydd. He could be a mortal right now offering his lifesblood to her, and it wouldn't sink in as being any different.
The sound of liquid pooling into the glass sounds clearly between the lift and fall of syllables, of consonants and vowels. Of breathing. Of heartbeats, immortal, animal, plant. When the glass is half full, the flow stops. The wrist is brought to his mouth. The glass is offered to you.
The smell of it is heady. Ancient. Among the more ancient that there is in all of London. In all the world. "This will help." Eventually. He lowers his wrist and he moves to take a seat next to Sandrine, that same arm wrapping around her.
"I can place a call about your things..."
Tori doesn't wait for an invitation. She knows the glass is for her. So, she reaches out with both of her hands to take the glass. "Great... they're all I need, likely," she comments as she pulls the glass away from Davydd and raises it to her lips.
With only a moment's hesitation, she then tilts the glass back, gulping the crimson fluid back like a thirsty woman in a desert...
There is an instant of disease from Sandrine as she sees how eagerly the glass is taken. She looks away, towards her greenhouse, thoughtful about whether or not she should have offered herself, being a Toreador. But she did not. Sandrine sits quietly, then looks over to Davydd.
It is like nothing you will have ever tasted...
The blood in the glass is an elixir of Life. The taste is incomparable. Magic. Fae. And the glass becomes the Grail. The blood, your restoration...
For a moment, for this crystallized moment, you feel mortal again. A rush of dragons beneath your skin. And their wings are made of light and fire. The exploding crystals of cells, of oxygen, a heart beat, the giddiness and the power of Life.
On tap even...
Davydd turns, looking to Sandrine. His hand moves along her back, fingers trailing in thought. She will either go mad or she will fall asleep. A pause and there is a tremor of humor. Or she will go completely bloodthirsty and I'll have to beat her off of me with a chair leg.
A small smile curls at Sandrine's mouth, rising from seemingly nowhere. She puts a hand on Davydd's leg and waits for the fallout that will come.
My god... wha--?
Confusion sets in with euphoria and other strange emotions and feelings. Blinking, Tori drops the glass. She can't help it. The hands which held it spasm open and closed as she stares off into a corner.
Perhaps at another time, she would simply go mad. But, she's alrady mad, remember?
And so, the one who was once called the Goth Diva (and now the face-ripper or worse?) cortorts strangely, her back arching a bit as her head throws back -- a startled cry of.. what? Ecstacy? Confusion? Madness? ...escapes her.
And then she slumps back against the sofa, seeming at peace once again as her eyes close gently. Strange... for a bit, she seems to breathe, even.
It looks like the chairs are safe for now. And so is she... and I'm famished... Does the man ever stop eating? Only when his mouth is full with something else. Sandrine. Scotch. Cigarettes. Davydd settles back on the sofa, hand coming out to pat his lover on her knee. You're a good woman, Sandrine Jorgensen... making me meat pies, lemon tarts and a plate of fruit. Ah, the coffee! He remembers it suddenly and sits forward.
The night slips into a kind of ...weird normalcy. And with Davydd, this is just about as normal as it gets...
Posted by Criseyde at June 24, 2003 03:43 AM
