A fine moist evenin...
     Even London looks beautiful. Well, 'faith, I am stretching the notion of beautiful thin. Still... lovely mist, lovely fog. Though it's spring, the nights are yet damp and cool. Times like this a man could get misty for home, were he not a right bastard like myself. I cannot helpt but make my rounds. Unshaven and unrepentent, like a good and proper pagan...
     I even pause passin' by a puddle of water in the street guttering. Smashin', really. The Brat's got nothing on me. Selfish tart. He's becoming as bad as Plantagenet at returning phone calls. Used to be, I could pop out of his garage or serenade him outside his Dannerly window, and we'd be off for a toss of whiskey and trouble. These days? Bah...
     Bah... he's as good as married, dead to the world of mischief. Taken up with someone, someone was saying. Who was it now? Eh, who can keep up with rumors. I've enough trouble keeping Rose's birthday in mind and I've known the woman for a hundred years.
     And so it goes this night for the errant Dragon, hands in the pockets of his hip long leather coat. Dressed in blacks and reddish-browns -- aye, Rose dressed him again. He looks, as he said, smashin'...
     A hand comes out to pull the cig out of his mouth, a gust of mist and smoke is bellowed after. Good evenin' London, you ruddy painted up tart. God love you...

     You can feel the approach of another not unlike yourself. Coming from the eastern parts of Savoy, where things get shorter and darker. It is not so much the footsteps, for the person is still some distance away, but instead the glow that inhabits all things supernatural. It comes down Liddellgate Way, a side street that shadows Savoy. Not so wide, it is restricted to foot traffic only. And therein lies the rub. Liddellgate is not for the fainthearted. Many of the riverfront pubs, restaurants, and other businesses along Savoy and Strand East back onto Liddellgate, and it shows.
     But the figure keeps coming, dressed darkly. A silhoutte moving along the dim alley. Then, it stops, facing the traffic of Regent and you.

     Could it be that my prayers have been answered? That the lord continue to giveth, and I to taketh away? Blood in the mouth, and possibilities pricked to the skin. And there is a streak of sudden fire. The trail of a tiny comet, the cig catapulted from his fingertips.
     By the time it is smoldering in a pool of water, in a chuck-hole of street, Davydd is already moving ahead. His direction? Well... it could be toward the pub. It's not a fast pace, but rather a stroll -- as much of a stroll as Llywelyn ever does at any rate. And as he comes, or as he goes, there is a thud against the air. Hello, here I am...
     He would be hard to miss. And the invitation is hard to pass on for some. He knows this, it's the life he leads. A hand reaches to the inside of his jacket and out comes a whistling tune...
     Something jaunty and celtic...
     And although his direction could be called, perhaps, rather haphazard and directionless, he is heading more or less toward that immortal beacon...
     More or less. See, his stroll is a bit of a flank, so as he can keep his eye on the silhouette and approach, and yet roundly getting about to one of the pubs nearby. Crafty. But then, it's how one stays alive isn't it...

     The infamous London streetlights help. The figure continues onward toward Regent, male certainly, definitely in black. Long coat. He is on the pace as before, soon to hit the safe coloring of city brightness.
     But he is familiar, isn't he? The rising return of illumination can say, long before he's really made out in detail...

     And so the rumble begins. A chuckle held in the throat, and in the chest. Not a leonine purr as some Aquitinian git, but the rumble of a dragon, more like. There's a smoky quality to his laughter and his voice.
     The stroll skips a bit, and out comes a familiar whistle. You've heard it, shadow, on many a mission. It sounds like a swallow plummeting to its demise. Oh many's the night of hangovers past where you have heard that shrill in your ear like the trumpet of the damned. When the hand comes out, it brings with it...
     A pack of cigarettes. Oh sure, the gun is there... but... the friend is felt rather than the... wished for foe. It is lit and then the flame is held up... more illumination, and Davydd leans in...
      My, were he not Davydd he could be called handsome. And he's wearing the full beard tonight, neatly and modernly trimmed though it may be, and the hair? Long and left to go as it will, and it is curly. The Welsh Dragon, indeed. His features are illuminated by the sudden flame. And he grins, smoke pouring out.
     Well, bless my tiny little cursed soul...
     The light goes out and the steps turn directly toward this silhouette. Fuck the pub. Well... for the now...

     "You'd wake the dead with that," comes the familiar voice and soon enough, familiar figure and face. Regent's casts a strong light at its edge, and Edward's face is unchanged after six centuries.
     "What are you doing down here...with no auto, mate?" Ah, the accent is there, but there are words now. Full use of the English language, with an Eastsider's twinge. He smirks as he comes into full view, grinning as he sees the cigarette. "Got one of those for a friend?"

     "If friend you be, aye... but I've not had a call from you in ... what... it has to be a year. A might ballsy, Meurelle... to go about expectin' charity without so much as a by-your-leave call..." It comes out in a flurry of... well, it is English under all that Welsh cheek. But the tongue lilts and pulls upon it with a vengeance. He did winter at home, you might recall it. And Gwynedd rides high on it.
     "Good to see you, boyo," he gruffs, and out comes a cigarette for you. "As for me an' my ride, you know..." he exhales a cloud of smoke and looks to the sky -- pontification forewarned in that, "... there comes a time, Frenchie, when we've got to move upon the earth on our own feet... I could say the same for you..." He offers a lighter in the great Welsh paw. "Strange but to see you out at all..."
     Here it comes...
     "... so I see before me now the mirage known as Meurelle..." The mouth makes a broad grin of it. "I must have had too much to drink at The Bollocks and Bits," his petname for some low-end pub, who knows which one, "...I think I'm hallucinatin'..."
     And so he proves it is you with a great clap of his hand rough upon a shoulder, and then shakes you a bit. "Where have you been? I've been bored without you..."

     His smile is also wistful. A year? Certainly not. But indeed, it has been unusually long, and he has been preoccupied. Edward's gaze is momentarily downcast as he inhales, brows arching in acknowledgement. "I know, Davydd," almost seeming sorrowful, his gaze turning sidelong, "...I'll...haveta explain it to ya. Mebbe, over a few? Something decent, huh? On me."
     He grins at the pat upon the shoulder, doing likewise with his own. Soon upon, he takes the lighter and looks for his own smoke. "You...well..." he smirks, "I will..." he sighs, "...it's a story. How about...the Wheatsheaf?" Nice and out of the way. Nothing horribly fancy, but a far sight from the Bollocks.

     A story? Now you have the Cymri's attention. Red brows shoot upward and he tilts his head. You don't say. A nod and another hard pat. "Aye... on you..." and then comes the peal of bright laughter -- no one laughs grander than Davydd Llewelyn -- and outward spread the brawny arms. "Who am I to refuse you?"
     Pack and lighter go back into his pocket, and he gestures you ahead with a sweep of his arm. "A drink and a story. You know the way straight to my heart you do. Maybe you can give Rose a lesson or twa in how to handle me..."
     You know it's vice versa... and yet, he can't help teasing the poor lass...

     As you walked, Edward talked of philosophical things. Of the City and him missing her, of him missing your companionship. All punctuated by the word brother or mate. Sentimentality has worn upon your comrade since you last saw him.
     That was...in France. Do you recall? "Come on, Roger'll make you whatever you want and I'll explain why I suddenly did not know how to use my celphone..." Edward smirks, patting you on the back as he holds the door open.

     And it was an oddly quiet walk. Your sentimentality was noted, the smiles were the same, but the voice quieted a notch or two. There was much shrugging on Davydd's part. A lingering bit of homesickness, perhaps. He's not one for sentimentality, but he knows when to bluster and when to speak quietly with a friend.
     But as he comes to the tavern, the quietness folds away from him like a dragon's wing. He ducks in with a great exhale. "I figured you just caught the French Disease," he rumbles with a grin as he passes by. A wink tossed back at you and then to the bar.
     By French Disease... you know he meant to say The Plantagenet Affliction... or maybe the standard, usual French rudeness...

     "Oh, come on now, Davy," Edward says, voice lifting to the noise as he guides you to booth. His hand waves haphazardly towards the bar, but soon settles at your shoulders again. "I've ne'er been like that, mate, you know it. Just...got a bit distracted," he smiles, pulling off his coat.

     "Oh aye... so it goes. A new pair of shoes come in," his English lilts with the Cymraeg lilt, ascending where the British descend in cadence. "...the old pair get tossed in the cupboard," his hands come up, playing it for all its worth...
     ...and then some...
     ...as usual...
     A great sigh comes, but it's tagged by a great and slanting grin. "See... now you've made me get all girly, Meurelle, buy me a Guinness or all start weepin'..." He slides into the booth with great distinction, a sigh and a groan, but then he settles in perfect comfort. Pack and lighter removed. And then his eyes lift. "They've not outlawed cigs in here 'ave they? I tried to pull one out in a hotel and damn near got mugged... bastards..." But even as he relates that, he's in the process of lighting another. "So..." the grin resurfaces. "I take it your vacation went well. Carried right on through the holidays and straight to spring..."

     The coat is tossed deep into the booth, and Edward slides in across from you. "I hope to hell not," he says, still working on his last. His own lighter and pack are tossed aside and he smirks as he leans upon the table, hands folding.
     "Yeah...vacation was good," Edward says evenly as the young man walks over immediately carrying items. Two pints of Guiness and a scotch chaser. Must be some favorite.
     And around Edward's neck, a string of amber.
     "Went to Georg's, rested. Stared at blissfully white snow," he smirks, settling back as waiter's hands fumble between you. "Clears the head, you know, Davy, it really does." How to explain it. "And...I had a good companion," he adds on at the end.

     Oh do tell...
     Red eyebrows shoot up again and the smile cocks to the side around the cigarette perched now between his lips. A glance for the Guinness, and he leans back a bit for that, lighting the cig with a ... polite... turn of his head. Ah... Rose must have been working on his manners. He's... almost polished...
     Almost...
     "Georg's eh? I've heard he has a nice bit up there. How is the old wolf? I've not seen him... ah well... I haven't seen him since the last time we were all together at Chinon for some reason. What the hell were we there for? Oh... and I heard about your little adventure..." He laughs smoke with widening eyes. "I wish I'd have been there... for the look on William's face. God... next time... take a picture will you...?"
     He heard you, he's getting around to it. Beer first. The cigarette is held, ash flicked away and a swallow of the Guinness taken, all before he leans in, arms upon the table, with eyebrows waggling. "So... who's the bird...?" With you... when hasn't it been a bird?

     Adventure? Oh, ah. That, right.
     But Edward smiles as he pulls the ashtray to a spot where you can share it, resting his smoke on the edge. He picks up his pint and lifts it at you, saying as it moves to his lips, "A pretty thing. Sandied hair of gold. French too." Can you believe that.
     "But," he finishes drinking, tongue clearing his lips, "...well, what do you want to hear first. About the holiday or William's broachment?" he laughs, using such big words nowdays. "Oh, you should have seen him, Davy, he's still pissed the fuck off..."

     Oh, the delight! The eyes twinkle with it. "Hmmm... holiday first... let's save the best for last, wot?" Brows waggle again. There's nothing he loves so well as William being invaded. Oh, love him though he does, it does warm the cockles of the old Welsh heart.
     "So... you have a lovely thing...sandy hair... very nice that. I love it when it cannot make up its mind if it shall be nutbrown or blonde. That gets me... French? Hmmm..." The smile smoothens. "French birds are the best... Dieu, as you all say. So you're telling me you didn't call because the great Meurelle was recovering from his little..." a chuckle interrupts his lilting words, "...christmas pie?" Ha! Eyes brighten like beacons at that and Davydd sits back with a peal of laughter again. I kill myself!
     The cig is pulled, a puff of smoke and the dragon reaches for a drink. "C'mon, c'mon... out with it, Edward..."

     He smiles to see you so joyed, and sets his drink down only long enough to take a puff of his cigarette. Nervous, is Edward, taking his time to tell a story. He's not known for such. "Christmas pie," he grins, shaking his head at your words. "I decided to bring leftovers home, Davy," Edward bends, stamping out the end of that one and immediately finding a second. "He's here...at Dannerly Court now." And we plan to stay here, me not so far away from you.

     There is the requisite blink -- you were expecting that. But to what? Is not the fact you're keeping a body around with you for longer than... a couple of weeks at the most... surprising? And you've been gone a while, now. And all through Christmas and after and the treat's still with you? Let alone being a man, he'll get to that in a minute. Davydd leans in, close now, and he squints his eyes at you. "Are you feeling alright? I don't think I've ever heard Meurelle worrying about leftovers, let alone having them move in..." A pause. "Mortal or immortal," comes the quirk of soft Welsh. A glance about quick-like. "C'mon, man... I need details."
     Davydd gasps and his eyes widen suddenly. "You've done it. You've fallen in love haven't you... alright, quit with the foreplay... so you have this... fellow?" A fellow? This is new too. "He must be sommat for you to take up with a man. I thought that was Plantagenet's particular bent. You know..." subject to subject he jumps. "Maybe I should give Rose a toss and take up with Sebastian..." A well-placed British vampire. "I must be missing something..."

     He smiles, not seeing you have a heartattack. "It wasn't planned," Edward exaggerates, leaning over his drink. He pulls back and takes a puff, setting lighter down again in exchange for his drink. "Mortal..." he begins, then frowns. "Well...um...shite, Davy," can't I even get this out at my own pace? "Okay, I wanna start at the beginning, huh? And don't even think of Sebastian like that, you make me wanna spew."
     A sigh and Edward brings up the scotch. "Okay...it...is sorta sousa-laced," red-faced, that is embarrassing, "...but it goes like wot..." he begins.
     "You...remember the night...after...Blancheflor got all higgeldy-piggeldy? We were at that cafe...the three?" It started then, his cigarette in hand seems to wave.

     It is a good thing none of you let Davydd near meth. He'd explode. Even more than you. Hell, Plantagenet could use the pick me up for his great self. But Llewelyn? He's bad enough sober...
     Content that you're going to begin the tale proper, the dragon settles back in the booth, knocking dead ash from the end of his cigarette before finishing it altogether. His bright eyes leap with light and color, hanging visibly onto your words. Blancheflor! Oh yes. I'd forgotten about her. You see it hit him and he narrows his eyes again, "Aye... twas the night I had no better pleasure than sleeping with Plantagenet...oh well... no, the French girl was nice too, aye... but right, right. I have the night you mean... what about it?"

     "Right-o, he was there," Edward shrugs, "...mebbe you didn't notice him, Davy, but...he and I talked. It was no drama, just...I guess..." he shrugs and smiles, turning up pint and then scotch, eyes upon you. "Like that."

     "I never look at men, they're moving furniture to me..." he murmurs, and he rakes a hand through his hair as he works to sort this out. But he's grinning. It hasn't left him. With you, maybe it's not as shocking as it was for William. Not that you're not a man's man for a' that. But with William there was both mortal and immortal expectation. No one can live up to that. "So... you've kept him around then. You must... care for him a good deal then," Davydd's tone is completely different. Quiet. Serious. Studious...
     Civilized...
     "Hmm... interesting... so, he was the one you were shaggin' upstairs when I rolled in with my woman and then flourished Plantagenet..." Davydd sits back, extinquishing his smoke and taking up his Guinness instead. And then, brows waggle anew. "So... are you going to tell me the treat's name...hey... wait-a-minute," eyes narrow and he leans back in, Guinness and all, "...you've got a mortal boy living with you? And am I going to have to refer to him as the Mortal Boy," he clips in Welsh, "or are you going to give me his name? Oh! You can take me there to meet him personal, even better..."

     Oh, right. That part.
     "Well..." Edward's brown eyes narrow, "...he...ain't..." and Edward glances at his watch, "...what time y'got, Davy?" He picks up his drink, eyes wide, and finishes the scotch off. "I think," he exhales fumes, "...my watch done give up."
     "And...his name is Valan. Valan...Montague. And it wasn't like that," he shakes his head, fishing for the Guinness, "...we talked a lot."

     His hands go up. Save it, save it. I know you. And he grins, with an eye-glittering wink. "Oh aye... I heard ye... I suppose you could call it... conversing." He pauses for a blithe look. "Of a sort... time?" You've interrupted the teasing. He won't be back to that for a while. So easy to steer off course, this one. "Hmmm..." a reach into a pocket, and he pulls out a beautiful, antique pocket watch. This is new. "It's shy of midnight... most of England's in bed. London still has the light on..." But, aye, the rest of the country's in bed.
     "Montague, wot? Hmmm... French boy. Lord have mercy on your soul, oh... wait a tick," Davydd grins, leaning in. "You're French too... I always forget. Take it as a compliment."

     He smirks at that, hiding behind his pint, "Can y'still tell?" he models, chin left and then right. No. Yes? Edward chuckles and sits back, sighing. What was that about mortality? Nevermind.
     "Anyway, that was...what was keepin' me. Sorry if I didn't call...that wasn't right, aye," Edward agrees. "Wanna 'nother?" he motions to your own drinks, lifting chin towards the bar to indicate seconds.

     "Bah," a great hand waves that away, "...that was just me givin you shite because you were the nearest to hand, Edward-bach... the Guinness does fine for amends. Oh aye... another will be even better. So, you are in love... aye? I mean... that is...what it is. I want to tell Rose, she will send you a fruit basket for condolences. Course... I've never been in love myself, so who am I to talk on it..."
     He's never been one for sentiment that's for certain. Though, most imagine that on quiet nights, if there are any near Davydd, he and Rose have surely approached something like love. Or have they? How many, indeed, are so fortunate?
     "And aye... you can tell a bit, yet. Only when you say something with vowels in it. Course, it's as wanton as the southern drawl, so it'll fade. Worry not... in a week's time, no one will take y' for a Frenchie and I'll forget," great, broad shoulders shrug. As if to say: I'm like that.
     "So what's all this, then, about Will's house being invaded? We'll get back to your Bit o' France in a moment..."
     It'll take a while for Valan to become 'Valan' to Davydd. But at least there was no headache or depression. He's a good deal less moody this time 'round...

     Oh, he swallows. Edward nods, "So, I dunno, this bird from America, but she had this accent, was bein' followed by...oh...the fuckin' Sabbat lackeys...and get this...some dark guy was one of them. He mighta been from East. Saracen or some lot. They're all in cos' house! No shite, Davy. It was the OK Corral. Okay, get this," Edward says, leaning in, rather animated now, "I am on my way back from Die Schweiz, and Valan and I have to stop at Bordeaux. No drama, right? I leave him there, and I'm on my way home, and I get this call from...get this...fuckin' Villon. Somethin's up, he shrinks," Edward pointing as his head, "...and wants me to go to Chinon. Oh, okay, I say, and in the icing fuckin' rain, I veer off the Nationale to Chinon."
     Somewhere in there, Edward puffs his cigarette.
     "Anyway, I get there, the house is in an uproar! The place is being locked down, and whoa...I'm inside. No cos. No blonde. I guess someone called, dunno, but soon after, my own phone starts to ring off the hook. So here I am, trapped inside, with a housefull of servants waiting to get creamed. And this fucker jumps outta nowhere and tries to slit my throat open..."

     "No shite!" He loves it. The drama! The daring-do! Oh well, I mean it'd be a different song if you'd gotten hurt or William or anyone of that caliber. "So.. back up a minute..." his hands are in motion, Guiness set aside. "...how was Villon knowing about what was up in Chinon? I mean... fuck him for calling anyway, but ... how did he even know. Probably planted the whole thing, the ass.... so anyway," hands are in motion again, and he leans in, "back to the story... so you've got the towel-head coming at you with a knife? And you're bloody phone was going off?" That kills him. Davydd laughs and slaps the table with his hand. "No wonder you've got the thing turned off... alright, so then what?"

     He nods eagerly at the towel-head. Nice how some things never die.
     "So, we're playing cat and mouse around the fuckin castle. I mean...when was the last time I scouted out Chinon? Corridors everywhere, this and that, and the bastard's doing this Sabbat shadow-shit. Then! Oh, wait, then...this is the good part..." Edward leans over, stilling to a freeze, "I run into this girl rippin' the fuckin' face off this other guy. I mean...she totally negated him. Cipher. She has this sword and they're going at it. And the towel-head shows up again. Tries to shoot me," he rolls his eyes, dropping hands and drink to table. What was he supposed to do.
     "I was gonna help the guy, but you know...sometimes, you can't do it all, you know?" Edward laments, shaking his head and picking up smoke and drink again. Puff and swallow. "Besides, I had my own problems. So, the towel-head loses, had to wipe up the floor with his band-aid. Glad he came with one," Edward nods.
     "Find out that this girl? Some friend of cos. She shows up in a fightmobile. No pope inside either."

     Eyes go wide again. A bird ripping the face off of some other guy. "The poor bastard. Oh shite. Lovely. I bet William was terminally thrilled!" And then the laughter starts up again. "Was he the one calling you?" Davydd leans in and puts on a put-off, serious face. "Edoowahrd, you break eet, you buy eet," after nearly a thousand years he can do William dead on. Exaggerated of course. He can't even go on, it's too funny!
     "Holy shite..." the Guinness is finished. Another cigarette is taken out. "So...you've got towel-head on you, sabbat with gun, and she's -- whoever the hell she is, I thought William was finished with birds -- ripping the face off some other poor bastard... so obviously, you killed Sahib... did you put the woman over your knee," insert: or whatever else you like to do with them these days.
     "How did it end! The bloody suspense... I can't take it..."

     He laughs loudly at the William imitation, then waves drink and smoke, "Well, the sticky-plastered bastard buys it. What else?" Edward smirks as if to say, He was facing me, after all. "She does the other one, and here I am standin' there, holding a Browning at her. I was prepared to send her to see Troile, this is true."
     But he sighs, "Well, I tell her to explain herself, and well, finally I answer the phone...and then the damned gates start to rise. The Lord Plan-latearriving-genet gets in. And boy is he lit!"

     There's nothing Davydd loves so well as to have an audience. And so for the laughter, which was as much applause to him, there follows a grin and a wink. There will be more. "Duw!" Welsh for Dieu. And he leans back, laughing all over again. "Plan-latearriving-genet! I love it. I'm pinchin' that..." a point to you and Davydd pauses to light a smoke.
     "I'm going to get him a set of padlocks for his birthday. With a little note: I heard Chinon could do with a security upgrade..." Smoke billows out with laughter and his eyes go squinty with it. "Okay, okay... sorry, they're going to come all night... continue. So you've downed Sahib, you've got the face-ripping wench on her heels and the Lord of the Manor has just arrived... spin it..."

     He blanches and smiles, "Oh, sweet Christ, don't do that, Davy, we'll never hear the end of it," Edward lolls. But he punches out his cigarette and goes on...
     "So, she's talkin' fast, thinking she can take me," this brings laughter again, "...but by then, Plan-late-net shows up, demanding, "What's going on," and "...why's there blood on my floor? Well, why the hell do you think, laddie? Cause shite died!"
     Waving his hand, Edward puts his drink down and fishes for another smoke. "So, he took over from there. He comes in, sweeps up. Guess they ditch the remains back to Spain or whereever in the desert they were from. I see the girl walkin' around Chinon that night and the next," he calms, "...she was some friend of his from America, and they'd fuckin' followed her all the way to Touraine." What is it with these people? "Can you believe that? She let them chase her, she got on a flight, she got into a car and ran to Chinon. They were some of the most shite assassins I have ever heard of. Sabbat must be slipping."

     He's red-faced and near-tears are hanging onto red lashes. It's all he can do from not rolling on the floor. A hand comes up, takes his cigarette and waves. No, no -- you're killing me! I need to breathe!
     It's a while before he's able to choke down a breath, chuckles and then shake his head, "Sweet Jesu, you'd think they could kill her sometime before then. So... okay... where the fuck was William anyway? He was at Chinon and out of his bed? Was Dunross with him?" And then the laughter starts all over again. "I'm going to get him a set of padlocks and some of that... blood-be-gone or whatever it is they advertise on telly!"
     That just sends him. He leans upon the table, arms on table, head in hands. "It's too beautiful to pass up, I just can't. When god in heaven gives something like this, you can't turn it away, Edward..." Wiping tears from his eyes, Davydd sits up, exhaling. "Shite... that's the funniest thing I've heard in years. Edooowahrd... why eez thehre blood on my flur..." And he cackles all over again.
     Now, he has to recline in the booth. "So then what...? Did William kill the girl?"

     He cackles too, hearing the accent, "Twas just like that too, Davy," Edward laughs, bringing the last of his scotch closer. "Oh," he sighs, "...guess not. I left the next night. He pulled a bit of metal out of my arm," he points to his right bicep, "...but that was about it. He dinna like what it all meant really," he slows down, "...and I can't blame him. But I think someone got the message." And whatever did happen with those bodies?
     "So, that was that. Met the girl...not my type. Too thin. American. Apparently, one of the two was supposedly her Sire..." not that Edward likes to pass on gossip, but he had to tell you about that part. He shrugs then, not really sure of all the details. "I got out though. Rested, took off. Went home and well, went on with what I had to do." And that brings up the last of his scotch, which he washes down quickly, finishing with cig between his lips.

     "I bet he was just... did he get eerily quiet on you? Lord, I've had meetings with the man... I thought he was going to gnash his pillow to bits. Oh! Did Plantagenet eat any furniture during all of that? That's when you need to take cover, boyo," a nod to you, as if you didn't know. Course, hard to say if anyone's ever seen William that angry. Maybe the saracen in Arsuf...
     "Hmmph... well, he will get over it. I did. Besides, it's not like Normans broke into his house and then moved in while he was out for a sunday drive," he chuckles at that and brings the cigarette to his mouth again. Oh, he's on a roll. William's certain to get a phonecall out of this, at the very least.
     "So... you are back for good then, aye? No more running off to France to stay for months at a time? We can take your lad out and get him sauced... introduce him to Knights on the Town with Davy-bach and Edward, wot? How old is he anyway? You've not got someone we'll have to sneak into the clubs, have you?"

     "Aye," Edward rolls his eyes, "...he can get into a club." He smiles at you and pick up the second pint. "And guess we're back for good, though I think...we might go back and forth for a while. I bought 156 next door, had the wall torn down. Renovations," he stamps the latest butt out, "...they're almost done too."

     "Oh really?" Davydd picks up at the sudden talk of hearth and home and property. Some things never change. "Maybe I'll bring Rose along for the first visit... that way, I'm guaranteed to behave. Don't ever say I never look out for you, mate..."
     Another drag is taken and then the cigarette is put out. "You've got to introduce us proper. I'll not have any of this modern oh-by-the-ways folks do now. Oh by the way, mum, I've gone off and gotten married. Or, oh by the way, I've got 5 months to live and I'm joining a rock-and-roll band. Oh... speaking of..." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a card. It's tossed upon the table with a flick of his hand, and then his finger pushes it toward you. "I'm going to be playing a few gigs this year. Rose and I are going back on the game. It's the one thing we do well together. Hell of a voice that woman, like an angel... you'll have to bring your boyo by the Snake and Weasel Saturday next... "

     Music? Interesting. Edward nods, reaching for the card. "Snake and Weasel huh? Boy, you do some fine places, Davy," he teases. "But no, no, we'll be there, absolutely." A nod. "That's brilliant, Davy," motioning with the card. Playing publically.

     A wave. Bah. "It keeps me honest..." He's not one for compliments, this one. He goes a bit pink at the ears with it. "And the Snake and Weasel is perfectly respectable," the Welsh suddenly clips up. As if he's nettled. And then he grins.
     The madcap. He will never change. It is his essential nature -- the Welsh Prince tossing rocks over a Norman wall. Mischief that can transform to guile in a flash of lightning.
     Eyes glitter in a wink. "So... back to the important bits. Your boyo..." A pause and Davydd leans in. "What's his name again? Valerian? Good Roman name that..." He nods and reaches for the pack of cigarettes. And half wonders if he should go. You see the hand pause upon the pack. An offer to you, and you can note the beginning preparations. "Hey!" And eyes widen. "You should take me to see him..."
     That would be lovely. But for whom?

     "Vay-lan," Edward exaggerates, rolling his eyes. He stills the hand by reaching out to take another cigarette. Always Time. Sable eyes look over for another drink, some information passed. "His name is Valan, and forget meeting him now," Edward smirks, taking the smoke and reaching to grab his pint for a last swallow.
     "He's not ready," he breathes, setting empty glass down. "I'll bring him to your gig, though," he explains.

     Oh. Vay-lan. Not as manly as Valerian, but not a bad name. The mouth crooks at the corners. His hand gives the whole pack. No, go on -- take it all. He waves it off and finishes the last Guinness. A long swallow that. And a long moment before he speaks again. His eyes on the glass and his mind...
     "Best in small doses," a murmur comes at last, and a wink trails it. With a lean inward he goes... strangely serious. And Davydd begins to rise. "Well..." a great exhale billows out and a hand rakes through long, red hair. "... tis a burden, a job never done being the last bachelor in all London...I better go out and give the girls a flourish. Alone. All by my lonesome. Whorin' on a Saturday night..."
     You know better. Somehow. Maybe it's something in the eyes. Or maybe you can just tell when he's putting you on, giving your leg a tugging. He'll be heading home to Rosamund tonight. "Call me. It keeps me from popping around unexpected..." Standing now, Davydd grins, hands in his pockets. "And if you talk to the Great Ass," who else could he mean, "...tell him to call me too, or I'll begin to think he doesn't love me..."

     "C'mon..." Edward blinks, "...not stayin' for another, Davy?" By then, the hawker's come over, bringing another two pints. "It's early still. The birds will still be out. They're out all the time..."

     It's all a part of the theatrics known as Davydd Llewelyn. You can tell it by the crooking up of his mouth again, the glittering eyes as they lift to you. A glint of green. And then the hands go out. "Alright... alright... one more... just because I love y'..." And he sits again with a great plop, without grace and with his full weight in the booth. A hand pulls the pint to him and he settles back with it.
     "Ah well, what am I in a hurry for. Rose is out with her boyo... that Vincent fella," a nod to you for the pack again. "The one who's a tart for art. You know... he walks like he has a Van Gogh," horribly mispronounced that, "...up his backside... I should let him have her." A wave. "He's all... sentimental and crap. She loves that..." And that's about as sentimental as Davydd gets. Though he'll never admit a lick that he wept the day he found out his great rival and brother had died. Course, he didn't live long after that himself, and everything was changed. Davydd grins to you and lights a cig.

     Edward nods, as if understanding. He makes sure the pint is pushed your direction, taking up his fresh one. It's lifted at you in salute, as he always does, and then a drink taken. "Well, y'know, Davy, she's always liked that," the City settling back into him, "...b'side, no boy can deal with Rose," Edward confirms. "He might think he can, but..." and he smiles. Only a real man can deal with the likes of her, implied.
     "I heard," he goes on, "...that they're sayin' at the next Meet," those dreadful Conclaves, "...they'll be lookin' for a new Gangrel...attache," Edward smirks. Leader is such a slippery term, let alone the formal appellation of Justicar. His brows wave and he sets his drink aside to deal with lighting a new smoke.

     Ah well, you're right there. He won't argue. The glass is offered to you in salute, even as the cig is pulled upon for a bit of fire and smoke. The last proper dragon of Wales puffs quite easily, grin and drink and all. The cig is removed, however, for the swallow of Guinness after. "Bah... attache... well..." a chuckle, "... we will see. It should be an interesting meetin' all the way round. Let me see," one great swallow down, the cig set in the tray, Davydd tilts up his head, eyes scanning the ceiling for remembered news and gossip. "What else..." Davydd looks back to you with a sigh. "I've never had a mind for politics."
     Lies. All lies.
     Another pull of the cigarette and he watches his hand. "Talk of London's on the block again," he murmurs. "Stability... breeds ambition..." And the green eyes lift to you and hold. And in a lightning flash he moves from mischief to guile. Even the smile that follows it is clear, dead-on and without the madcap flare of earlier. "It will be an interesting meeting. You should come to the next one..."
     He doesn't say much about Rose and her men. It's always a different thing, of course, than Davydd and his women. At least to Davydd. She'll always come back. And he supposes he shouldn't blame her for wanting a romantic. Maybe some nights she's just more partial to that. Who could blame her for wanting to hear a nice word or two? Instead of a grunt or a gruff reply? Davydd, least of all.
     But it's not to say it doesn't rankle him. Why could he not be born French, like you and William. So good with the pretty words and all that...

     "I am thinkin' about it," Edward says solemly, not really committed yet. "No, I haven't been in a while, save when Villon makes a specific request, or one of You," meaning the Twelve. Having a larger entourage never hurt anyone. Much.
     "So, what's this about the City?" That's interesting. "Somebody chawing?" Noise. Always noise. Nothing's ever good enough, nothing's ever quiet enough, nothing's ever loud enough. "Someone wanting The Job?"

     "I'm thinkin' about it..." he murmurs. Thinking? Only for the last century. The last eight centuries. "A man of action," Davydd drolls, "...that is what they call me. And so... after eight centuries, I suppose I should do something with myself. I am thinking... England... why not. I mean, I have Wales... or at least the North from Powys to Gwynedd. I should do what I was put on this earth to do in the first place. Fly the dragon banner over Londonium..." And then, after all of that, he shrugs. "I started the conversation sometime last year. They're still in a tizzy. By the time it gets to the meetin'...?" Now he grins. "They'll be in a right froth."
     Villon. That gets a look. Bah -- the great French Poof. "So... there it is... maybe a new Justicar or two... maybe a new prince or two. It should be entertaining. Worth the price of admission. Ooh!" Davydd's eyes go wide and he leans in with a broad smile, "...I wonder if if there will be clowns. Bah! What am I saying, the Dignitary will be there with the rest of the dagos..." And so he answers his own question.

     "Sounds like clowns'll be there," Edward grins sardonically, pushing the cigarette between his lips and letting it hang. With his drink safely near his chest, he begins to arrange the other glasses off to the side, with both hands. Almost as if playing an intstrument. The pints tinkle melodically in the motion.
     "But," the cigarette dangling precariously, "...it's you, huh?" Not that it hadn't crossed his mind. "You sure you wanna do that," he peers over at you, eyes narrowed. It's been a long time. Why now? "What does Rose think?"

     Laughter. For the first time in a while. It comes out in a bit of smoke and with the roughness that genetics and fire lend to his voice. "No, I'm not fucking sure at all. I was bored on a Saturday night and thought... fuck it... I'll do it if none of the rest of you cheeky bastards will. I mean, shouldn't there be someone? Or should we leave it alone to spin off as it will? I suppose that's what we will discuss. I'm up for debatin' anything. And Rose hates the idea, naturally. But I'm sure her boyos will pat her on the head, give her sweet words and she'll go read a book or see an art exhibit or something... she'll get over it."
     He doesn't say anything for a time. A swallow of Guinness, and then comes a half-frown, half-smile -- unsure of what it shall be. As unsure, perhaps, of what he wants. "It'll give me something to do instead of being sort of old and aimless... it's a curse, ambition. A ruddy, fucking curse... Maybe I should learn to write poetry instead..."

     The glasses stop and Edward's hands fold around his pint. With cigarette smoke filling his face, his words are clear. "I think you shoulda been the prince of the greatest city in the fuckin' world a long time ago."
     Edward's gaze shifts to the bar immediately, fingers rising to make a indicate a small bit. A shot of something. When he turns back to you, he shrugs easily, letting the statement stand on its own.

     "One for me too..." It's quiet, his voice. And he swallows something. And then he nods. The cigarette is stamped out. "Aye... well... when the stars fell on the night I was born, twas said that one comet arched straight over London, and I was destined to be the next Arthur..." That said with such theatrical cadence, you know he must have heard it every year of his life. Once, per birthday. "Course, they say that to all the Welsh princes, bah... the next Arthur."
     Well. Why not?
     "C'mon, c'mon... a drink to it then. Tell me I'm mad. It's the only way I'll know I'm right..."

     Edward laughs and lifts his pint. "Naw, mate, yer not mad," he smiles, "...but maybe it's time...you stop being so nice." A grin and taps his pint to yours, "I'll be the first to give my hand to the next Prince of London, when they make us stand in line. Cheers, Davydd ap Llewelyn..."

     "Bah... I'm stark ravin'..." There. It's done. A tap of a pint. A swallow of beer. Hands meet the surface of the table. And it's done. I'm going to do it. It's as close to king as I'll ever get. The crown jewel, as they say. And who better than I to do it? None better in this city.
     Green eyes lift and the grin is wide and slanting. "An' don't think I'm not thinking that it'll be apt time to make Norman kiss the ring... I've been waiting... lying in wait for that all my life. He'll look shocked. It'll be worth all the work, all the wrangling, all the pissin' and moanin'... just for that sweet moment. I shall savor it and live a thousand years on it alone." And he laughs, and he teases. But he's serious too. Though friendship has replaced the enmity, the rivalry has remained intact. Unmolested. Unchanged.
     "I should let you get back to it... being-in-love and all. From what I hear from Rose, tis an all day task. I don't think I'd ever be able to manage it. Sounds like too much work if you ask me..."

     Edward smirks, downing a good portion of his drink. "It's an all night task," he changes the idiom, "...but I'm up t'it." You can imagine.
     And now he'll let you go.
     "So, I'll see ya at the gig, right?" Rest of Edward's pint disappears, and he stuffs out the cigarette, instead preparing another for the walk home.

     "Fucking French... you lot ruin it for the rest of us..." A gruff and a grin. And a sigh. Alright. Time to get to it then. "Start building me up, aye? Gradual-like to your boyo... make a myth out of me. It's my only shot..." And laughter rumbles again as he stands. A mountain of a man, but no taller than you.
     Hands pat his jacket after downing the Guinness in one full swallow. "Aye... the gig. Don' miss it. Snake and Weasel. Drinks on the band, aye?" And green eyes glint to you. "Come 'round the back when you come. I'll make sure y' treated as y' should be." And with that, he's turning to go. A last wave to you.

     "Now that's fearsome," Edward grumbles as you turn, picking up the cigarettes and offering them at you. "Take these," he says, fishing bills out of his pocket and letting them drop on the table. A couple dozen quid. "Things are poison. Sides, mine are better," he grins, moving around the edge of the table to follow you out.

     Oh yeah. Money. I nearly forgot that. A couple of extra quid for the waitress is tossed in with yours, oh and to cover half of it really. He's not making you buy. The pack is taken up and a great slap on your shoulder. "A man's cigs," he gruffs. "Not any of that girly scented hashish crap. You should talk to Wills. Tell him to swear off the queer fags..."
     He's been waiting all night to say that one.
     "Have a good night, you beauty of a man. I'll see you in a while..." A last slap, a last look, a last grin. And he pushes his way out the bar, past the front area and out the door. Out of sight of eyes, he goes out of sight...

Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 05:25 PM