Taking a taxi in from the airport, Victoria paid a visit to the appropriate 'authorities' as soon as she made it into town. Once that duty was over, the night was open game. The taxi dropped her in the East Strand, driving off to leave her alone with her thoughts. Standing on the sidewalk, her head swivels slowly to take in the sight.
     Home.
     It has been so long since she walked the streets of London.
     Has it truly been so long? Street lamps cause flickers of light to bounce off of the specs which hide her pained gaze. The very air calls out her name to her... pulls on heartstrings she thought were long dead and shriveled. In the night air, she whispers a single, simple phrase, nearly without voice...
     "I am home."

     Sakir walks along the Thames, a white suit amidst the gloom and darkness. Streetlamps herald his presence, his clothes brilliant in the night. His hands stray to lampposts, and parking meters, fingers gracing monuments with a touch.
     Despite the Opera house left so far behind, Sakir seems to draw the music with him. The sense of Society. The smell of the well to do. And yet his features are stony -- not angry, but simply lacking expression. Blank.
     Cold. The air here is chill, in contrast to his native lands. He stops amidst the cobblestone, for the moment savoring the temperature of the air.

     Dressed in black, Tori is more like a shadow walking along the streets slowly. Booted feet thump dully upon the pavement as she makes her way toward the pubs, or maybe she's just wandering. Her overcoat trails in the breeze behind her, looking like a cloak for a moment, perhaps.
     She seems to pay no particular attention to any soul out here this evening, her gaze hidden from view. Hands shoved into jean pockets, she sets a steady, yet casual pace as her feet definitely begin taking her toward a pub now. She pauses outside of one, looking toward the door.

     What ho, sounds from the East. Laughter. Drunken?
     Maybe...
     There's so little difference between a tickle or two of Guinness and pure joy. But from the east... and steadily... even as the sun shall follow in a bit, there are two darkly clothed gentleman -- one more than a head taller than the other -- in no particular hurry. No particular place to go.
     No time to worry about. Well, apart from dawn. That would be a drag. A real party pooper, Apollo...
     The laughter is coming, as it frequently does, loudly from the lighter haired gent. Red, when a bit of illumination heads his way. And though it's spring, in London that still calls for a leather coat. Davydd walks, gloved hands laced behind his back. And ... walk... maybe that's not the right word. He's strollin', ladies and gents. His eyes lifting from his friend, lighting on the cloudy sky and in surveying moments to the streets and those other who walk it. Just like he does.
     Only he and his darker, taller companion have walked it, he'd warrant, longer than the rest of ya...

     Left foot taps a moment on cobblestones, and then Sakir is walking slowly again. As he meanders, not really heading in any given direction, he loses that exotic aire. Merely a man in a white suit, no longer the opera goer. Then more and more he seems a part of this place, another London eccentric. A fixture.
     His lack of expression shifts occasionally, a smile in return for smile, a frown in return for frown. Then back to nothing. Those that stand out in the crowd receive momentary looks, judging, memorizing. Sometimes he even apes body language, pattern of walking shifts, the way he holds his shoulders. Then a shrug, and he returns as he was.

     So, what'd ye think?" comes the darker-haired one. A fighter's build, certainly, clothed darkly down to the biker's boots. But he walks not like someone who spends all his time in the ring. There's comfort and a light-footed tripple to his walk by his companion. "She was all I said, eh? Nothin' like her in a while, hmm?"
     The jacket is adjusted. Edward nudges Davydd, then quickly steps in front of him, walking backwards now. "Wot? Not talkin' are ya?" Eastender's slur upon his lips. "I'm surpris'd, mate, she's..." and Edward does an overexaggerated shudder, just to emphasize his point. "Com' on, Davy, speak it!"

     Still standing in front of the pub, Victoria looks into the window briefly, then at the door... as though considering whether or not she wants to actually enter the establishment. The door to the pub opens, causing her to step back and out of the way of the exiting patron.
     This move was pointless as the patron bumps into her anyway, swaying this way and that. Obviously he can't hold his liquor. Grabbing a hold of Tori's shoulders, the man says gruffly, "Why don' ye watch 'ere yer goin', missie? Yer... yer blockin' th' way..."
     Scrunching her nose up a bit, Tori's shoulders shrug impulsively as she steps back a bit more, dislodging the man's hands from her. The drunk shakes his head, then stumbles onward, muttering to a 'friend' who's not really there. The petite woman chuckles, murmuring to the air, "This place hasn't changed..."

     Gloved hands go up and the laughter falls from him. There, that voice. Hallmark. Midway between lilt and growl. The build, if one pays attention to it, is solid. A mountain. Fighter? Maybe not by trade these days, but who would try him? "I never tie-up, spank-and-tell," since when? And his accent?
     Unlike his partner, there's not an ounce of London in him. It speaks of greener parts, mountainous country, and fierce pride. That'd be Welsh, that lilt and that drag. The odd cadence, always lifted.
     "Alright, alright," Davydd halts his stroll and closes his eyes, "She's a naughty little princess and I like to encourage the behavior. She's..." Dark, the chuckle -- the laugh, the rumble of sound in broad chest -- as he begins the slow motion again. "...amazingly agile, flexible, and has unique endurance for a city lass..."
     The rest is spoken well enough by the grin. A paw of a hand slaps against his friend's arm. "Let's stop in for a drink... I'm buyin'..."

     Looping undirected paths carry Sakir around, currently just shy of the store fronts and pubs. Fingers outstretch, occasionally, to slide across window panes and brickwork. Once or twice this contact causes a look of surprise, and then focused attention onto whatever it is his fingers contact. And then he is off again, walking slowly along the storefronts.
     Finally moving more resolutely toward the pub, Tori leaves the drunk to his own devices. He is already forgotten. Her hand turns the handle and the door is opened... letting her enter the establishment in a quick swirl of black...

     "Aye, that ye are...an' tellin' me th' details," Edward laughs brightly, twisting to open the door for his friend. "Ach. Black Jack Davy's. How appropriate," he chortles, grinning at Davydd. A piroutte, and the door swings open, Edward behind it to give Davydd a wide berth.
     His lips part to speak, but Edward pauses. He looks past Davydd to the woman standing on the other side of the doorway. Eyes catch the drunk departing and the man in the white suit. Interesting fashion, that. But quickly, Edward's sable gaze return to Tori, his head tilting.
     "'Allo..." he calls at her at the doorway, peering. I know you, don't I?

     From the opening door, a lighter shade of dim splays outward. Showing fiery red hair, near metallic copper -- like that ore once mined from his mountains -- cut short at the back, but longer in the front. The goatee. Illuminates the grey sweater, with a layer of white beneath that. Slides against the leather of his coat. Thuds and ends its life on the black trousers.
     Right shoulder ducked, to swerve him within thanks to Edward's courtesy. But there... he holds. A half-pivot and eyebrows knit upward. And then arch. And then he smiles.
     Green eyes glint slantwise to his companion. Who's that?

     The open door, Sakir spies, and thus makes his way towards. A smile traces itself back across his features. Been so long since he has been in such a smokey den of consumption. Perhaps it will hold some fragment for him.
     As he rounds closer, the slow realization of the three gathered at the entrance dawns across him. He slows, unsure if he will interrupt them by his passage -- or worse, offend them. Some dozen meters off he stops entirely. Head cocked to one side, considering.
     Mere seconds to decide, and his slow pace begins anew. The open portal into the pub, his destination.

     Raven-black locks spread about her as Tori turns her head to look back toward the door. Who could be saying hello--oh, wait... you're familiar. The rest of her body turns in Edward's direction now as she moves closer, approaching.
     Realizing who it is, she speaks. "Hello... fancy meeting you here..." she replies with a slight grin. Well, she knows you, indeed. Blue specs catch the dim light in here for a moment as she moves her head, looking about before looking back at Edward. "I did not think I would bump into you so soon," she admits.

     "'Allo," Edward says to the man in white, smirking the whole while. "Right colorful," he offers, grinning at the notion. In his book there's fashion...and then there's a while world of...haute coture. The white suit must be haute coture. "In with ya," he says to Sakir, then smirks at Tori, "Too right," nodding at her, still holding the door wide open for any Child of God to enter. Smoke piles out. Maybe this is a good thing for those ensconced within.
     "This is...a friend of...Will's," Edward murbles from the side of his mouth to Davydd. That one I mentioned? "We met in France, huh?" More of a confirmation than a real question.

     "Holding out on me, Edward-bach," the broad-grinning rumble of the other near at hand. And Davydd moves back out of the doorway. The white suit distracts him a minute. There's a bit of a nod to the man in passing and he gets out of the way with a forward, side-step.
     Oh. The friend of William's. That one. "You don't say," trips the deep voice. Were it not for the light lilt, the agility of his words, his voice might seem very rough indeed. "France? Bah, France... you're better off now that you're in God's Country. Honest heathens..."

     He wasn't expecting to be addressed. Sakir looks started as Edward speaks to him, and he mutters -- something. Foreign. Then he looks more flustered, and continues his steps.
     The door yawns open, and like a dragon's maw, it belches smoke. Into this hell he descends, white suit vanishing into smokey embrace. This clothing shall be sent to the drycleaners in the morning. Silk takes up smoke far too easily.
     A booth, near the door, calls him in snugly. Easier to watch the ebb and flow of patrons.

     First nodding at Edward, Tori replies, "Yes...we met in France. At William's..." She pauses there, remembering the circumstances. Her head then tilts in the direction of Edward's companion, smirking a little. "Well, it's good to be where I belong, in truth... and not being in the way in someone else's home," she says, nodding to both of the men. Her head turns just very slightly as the man dressed in white passes and speaks.
     Then, her attention returns to the two before her. Extending her hand toward Davydd, the raven-haired lady says, "I am Victoria Whitethorne... most call me Tori, but I really have no preference. Pleased to meet you--" Do you care to introduce yourself, friend-of-Edward?

     Now that the others are talking, Edward allows his gaze to wander within to the man in white. Language? His mind flips through a rolodex of them. He stares for a few seconds, until he hears the question being asked and name repeated. Victoria...that was it.

     "Davydd ap Owain, called Llewellyn," Llewelyn. An old name and a common one these days in his country-land. The nation everywhere present upon his tongue, and, in truth, every motion. The gloved hand that extends toward hers curls softly. That's cashmere wool on the hands. It softens a hard touch. "Will and I go way back..." Way back.
     The aspect softens and the smile is omnipresent. "Tori it is then," Davydd replies, quietly and easily. "It saves me from making up a nickname later, and better it is that it is of your own choosin' as Edward here can attest to." The hand's released after the gentle, and in some ways courtly, hold. And then arms fold against his chest. "So," the smile broadens and it lightens his whole face. "I heard there were all sorts of people in Will's home..." A half-pivot toward Edward and Davydd's grin slants.

     "Ah, come on," Edward grumps, taking his eyes off Sakir long enough to motion the other two inside. "Y' can gab over a pint," he grins and grumbles, waving his hand in the open door.

     Llewelyn. Now. Where have you heard that name before in the context of William? From stories told long ago? Or was it more recent?
     And closer to him as you are, you see more of the man's aspect and figure. He's about 5'10"... maybe. Stocky and strong, he's a Welsh mountain, for certain. Red hair, green eyes. A small nose, and high cheekbones. In the summer, he'd go freckled and bronze. His complexion is more of a creamy Celtic. Ah, you know... pale.
     And you don't have to search far to find his presence. It's everywhere, even when it's turned down to a dull roar, as it is tonight.

     "Pleased to meet you, Davydd," Tori says with a smile, then a chuckle as she hears the nickname comment. "Oh, well, yes... that night, it was a full house," the woman replies, seeming only a little hesitant to speak of it. She pauses and glances about, then seems about ready to say something, until Edward speaks. Chuckling again, she replies, "Yes... it's best to talk about this a little more... discretely, perhaps.." As opposed to inside a doorway of a pub.
     She then offers a quick smile to Edward and then moves further into the pub, seeking out a private booth a bit farther removed from the larger part of the patrons in here this evening.

     A roll of great shoulders and Davydd turns about. An arm extends in gesture. Ladies first. "Bah, discretion. Half of Europe knows about it by now..." Hmmm... I wonder why. And when William returns from his trip, he'll find a lovely wrapped box waiting. And inside that box a pile of padlocks. For better home security...

     The nearest booth to the door. Sakir sits in darkness with hands clasped around a pint of some local beer. Untouched beer. His tattoos are evident in this pose, dark marks on wrists. Silently musing, he sticks out strangely in the bar. White suit clashing with the dark evirons.

     "Age before beauty," Edward adds, laughing at that one. Touching his stomach even. That was good, Meurelle.

     Well, it's not as if Davydd can contest that. He's not as lovely as Edward. And he is quite a bit older, though who could tell it. Bah. Who cares about beauty anyway? He leaves that to philosophers and Frenchies...
     There's a green glance again to the white. The man stands out but moves as if he didn't wish to. Quite peculiar. Davydd exhales loudly as he heads in and there's already a black-and-tan being prepared as he steps in. He grins and pats a man at the bar on the arm. "Noswaith dda, Kelly. How's the missus?" He doesn't really pause to get the answer. Kelly gives a shot as Davydd is already half-turning with a wave, and he looks, first, for the Victoria bird and then for Edward. Comin'?
     A gloved hand reaches out and captures the black-and-tan as it's set upon the bar. Consider the tab opened...

     The coat which almost seems a tiny bit too long for the woman -- its fabric just barely sweeping the floor -- is removed and slung over her arm as she walks. This reveals her dark apparel beneath: black jeans, buckle boots, black tank top covered with a shirt of fishnet... In some areas of London, she'd fit right in.
     Another quick glance is given to the man in white...with just a tilting of her head. Perhaps she is admiring the tatoos. Then, she follows Davydd toward the bar, realizing he's not looking for a booth.

     "Cheers, Kelly," Edward waves, more concerned with his hands finding a cigarette. Or something. "Hey, gettus a warmer, will ya, Davy?" Edward tosses off, letting Davydd and Tori find a seat. His boots take him not directly to the bar, but instead to the man in the white suit. Easily he saunters over, as if the bar was his own living room.
     "Saw y' at th' door," he says to the man in white, taking up space at the edge of his table. No need to touch the wood, no need to overwhelm the gent. Head bobs, eyes making note of the exposed tattoos. "Join us for a few? Pints on us..." he offers Sakir, cigarette finally out and dangling at his lips. Hands are alive with a flame, and he touches it to end of his smoke.

      There's a bit of a booth toward the middle of the joint. Good vantage. The best view. And there's a reserved sign. Aye. Davydd comes by here every night. Kelly? That'd be the proprietor of the establishment.
     Gloved fingers pluck up the sign marked 'reserved' and he nods toward its leather confines. He may be rough around the edges, but he's nothing if not a gentleman. As Tori sits as she will, Davydd begins removing his gloves, eyes following Edward. A red brow cocking upward.

     Finding a seat next to Davydd, Tori looks to the one being referred to as Kelly and asks, "A glass of red wine, please?" Smiling, she looks toward Davydd now, murmuring, "You and William go way back, then, hm?" A slender hand reaches up and finally removes her blue specs, revealing her ice-blue gaze... that gaze follows Davydd's to Edward, watching for a brief moment. Her gaze then drags back to the man next to her as Edward lights his cigarette.

     Wrists turn down instinctively as Sakir notes Edward's gaze. A touch of alarm on his features. "I --" He faulters for a second with the language "-- would enjoy that yes." He then slowly begins to stand, at least to make introductions, while one hand remains on his glass. "Sakir Akalay." Left hand offered to shake. "And I thank you for your offer, though I already have a drink." Strange how fast he changes from faultering over a language to seeming perfect fluency. It must have been surprise.

     "Good on ya," Edward murbles with some skill. Well dictioned, even if some of his muscles must hold the cigarette. "Edward Meurelle," he offers, the name punctuated by the click of the closing lighter. Left hand meets Sakir's, shaking evenly, right putting the lighter within the confines of his jacket.
     Edward motions to where his friends sit, the jacket loose across his back. Hand waves at Kelly finally, some age-old signal that. Start the tap.
     "Aye, we got anoth'r," Edward calls over the din and through the smoke. Sound has a hard time through solid walls. "Sakir," he says, informing them casually, as if he's known the suited man for ages.

     Soft gloves make a quiet thud upon the table as they are tossed to the oak. A roll of shoulders, and Davydd begins to free himself from the leather. And in turn from its pockets, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The coat is left to hang on the coat-hanger affixed to the side of the booth wall -- it being enclosed on three sides.
     And then, midway between her last words and the next raising of wrists around the bar, Davydd's settling in the booth, large hand curling around the cigarette pack and lighter.
     Laughter. Lit by a flame. Exhaled in the first, burning smoke. "Aye... way back," he says lowly, to the booth. "Hoi!" An exclamation for the new guest. Green eyes settle on the woman next to him, however. We'll talk about it later. And emerald shines with a wink.
     It's not but a few minutes before a glass of red wine is delivered. They only serve two kinds here at Black Jack Davy's -- your basic red and your basic white.

     Sakir follows discretely behind Edward, as they round on the booth. Dark eyes pass over the other two, gauging. Suspicious. His mouth seems fixed, for the moment, in that half state between smile and no expression.
     With right hand holds his glass by the rim, sleeves covering the tattoos for the moment. He waits aside the booth, for introductions or at least a gesture for him to sit. At Davydd's exclamation, he bows his head slightly, though still does not make to sit.

     That pale gaze flickers from Davydd up to Edward and his new guest. Yes, we shall talk about this later. Smiling, Tori gives the newcomer a nod of her head, politely greeting him this way. Slender fingers wrap about the wine glass, pulling it toward her as she settles in her seat. Her coat is still over her arm.
     Realizing she didn't see the coat hanger, she chuckles and looks to Davydd, asking sheepishly, "Oh... would you mind just tossing this up there? I didn't see it... Sorry..."

     "The lass, Tori, the other...well...we call 'im Davydd," Edward chuckles, taking the open spot at Davydd's side. He'll leave Tori's shoulder to Sakir. Maybe away from the males would be more comforting. About now does one of Kelly's people come by with Edward's pint. Something dark, certainly. It is set beside him, and the server turns away to head back towards the bar.
     "Thankee, Jamey," Edward calls, motioning Sakir to a seat. He'd plop, but someone has to toss up a jacket.

     Who do I look like? Jeeves? But Davydd relents with a chuckle of smoke. Lips grasp the cig and he reaches around the table to take her jacket. Half-rising, he gives it a bit of a toss, and it lands well enough.
     Eyes then go to the new guest, hand comes up. Cigarette held away and ashes flicked off. Smoke curls upward past the nodding red head. "Davy's fine by me too, whatever ya feel like. Pleased to meet you..."
     Oh, sitting by me, eh? Davydd scoots in and gives Edward the outside edge. Cigarette held balanced he takes the first swallow of the black-and-tan, a specialty of the house. Nothing beats Guinness with a touch of Welsh cider.

     Effortless movement, and Sakir slides into the empty spot at the booth. "Good evening" He murmurs, as his presence brings an unexpected scent of jasmine and a hint of cloves. "Sakir Arkalay, though Sakir is just fine." A londoner accent beginning to creep into his voice.
     Discomfort? No, none of that. Though he keeps his wrists down, so none can see the markings. "I thank you for inviting me to your table." He places his drink down, having almost taken a drink but not quite. The glass still shows no signs of any sip being taken from it.

     "All's welcome," Edward explains, finger hooking around the ashtray as he drags it towards himself. "So...what feeds y', Sakir?" he begins the conversation. Wasn't that a thread left from yesterday? It comes so quickly, as if the welcome is meant. No strangers on this side of the City.

     A very light hint of colour rises in Tori's cheeks as Davydd takes the coat and tosses it up. Lifting her glass to her lips to hide this, she murmurs, "Thank you..." and then takes a mouthful of the crimson liquid.
     She's a small woman... no, that's not right. She's tiny. Some have called her a pixie before. So, she doesn't need to shift over to allow space for the newcomer. There's plenty of room.
     Lowering the glass to the table, her ice-blue gaze moves to look directly at Sakir as she murmurs, "Good to meet you, Sakir. The more, the merrier..."

     "Feeds me?" That turn of phrase strikes Sakir as odd. "I'm not hungry, if that is what you mean?" His eyes follow the ashtray, or at least, the movement of the ashtray. Now that he is closer, it is obvious that his eyes flick from one source of motion to the next. Unconcious. Watching. But no sense of tension or paranoia. Just watching.

     Edward picks up his drink, removing his cigarette with the other hand. "No, no, I mean...what d' ye do for a quid?" He peers over his pint as he mumbles 'cheers' in cursory fashion, quick to take a drink.

     "Oh. I see." Sakir considers. "I guess, I travel. Though that doesn't sound quite the satisfying answer." One hand idly pushes his glass to one side. Merely shifting its position for the sake of so doing.

     Red hair drapes forward as Davydd hovers over his cig and ale and with a turn he peers to her past the red and gives her a wink. Naturally, he takes a moment to admire her coatless and blushing. He's a vital young man, he should be forgiven.
     But as the cig rests firmly between his lips again, Davydd settles back, head lifted and he gives his attention equally about. "Aye? I'm not much for travel myself. I mostly go back and forth from Wales to London. Hell, Cornwall is a holiday for me..." Nose wrinkles a bit. Sad, but true.

     Thinking her blush went unnoticed, this only causes her to blush a bit more. Clearing her throat slightly, Tori glances away from Davydd and to Sakir, asking him, "Traveling? What sorts of places have you been to? May I ask?" Her wine glass is then raised again, as another mouthful is taken.

     Edward nods, turning from the other two to see the focus of the conversation. Smoke and pint are interchanged at his lips, quickly enough so that Edward forgets neither.

     Sakir smiles to Davydd. "I, myself, have never been to Wales." He glances at his drink. "Is it nice?"
     "Around the Mediterranean, mostly" To Tori "Though I do make the occasional stop over in the New World." The last said with a hint of humor. "And I do my best to make it to India at least once a year."

     Is it? Is it? Oh! Eyes widen and the hands free themselves from the distractions of Guinness and fag. The sudden light. The grin. The knowing in the features of his face. "You have to see it to believe it. The house of all that's left of magic, aye. That's m' home. You're on the island, aye? You've got to head west, for the best of it..."
     He could go on for hours. Literally... as Edward can vouch.
     "Particularly the Powys area, Gwynedd... high coasts, rolling valleys, tall and old mountains, oaks with bellies the size of cars..." There's a wink to that, a slant of a grin, and the cigarette returns. Fire breathed, even as smoke billows from the dragon's nose.

     "He can read th' travel guide," Edward suggests, leaning into the table as he laughs and follows up with another drink. "Actually, it's not such a bad place, Wales is," he explains, grinning at Davydd and then Tori in turn.

     "The New World.." Tori repeats with a grin spreading across her lips. "I just came from there not too long ago," she adds, setting her glass down again. Placing one hand on top of the other on the wooden table, she glances at Davydd as he seems to light up at the question from Sakir.

     Davydd's intensity surprises the quiet Sakir. He sits a bit back in his chair, as the conversation surrounds him. A smile. How like a marble, he seems to take pleasure in being the focus of attention. "I will, then, travel to Wales if I am able. Though, I must admit, the largest trees I have seen are in the new world. They scratch the sky, as far as I can tell."

     "America," Edward begins, lifting his drink as a baton, "...I dunno...ne'er did much for me. I've ne'er really want'd t' go there. I went once..." he looks at Davydd and Tori, "...jes t' see Will. But that's it."

     "Bah, travel guide," there's the more familiar rumble of the last dragon of Wales. But he grins all the while. Even going a bit pink at the ears. Fuck you, Meurelle. Lips are puckered and blow a kiss and then smoke at his old friend.
     "Aye... I've heard about the trees in America... what trees they have left. Course," Davydd sits back, "I've never been there m'self. I've only seen what's on the television..." Marvelous thing that, telly.
     "You went to see Will? I didn't know that. I shoulda gone with ya... where was he? Oregon was it? They've a lot of Welsh in Oregon... big trees and sheep, that must be why..." Notice he has a bit of a one track mind?

     "I lived there... for a quite a few years. But, it grew tiresome," Tori admits and then nods toward Edward. "I don't think I would go back at this point," she adds softly. Then, shrugging, she looks back to Sakir and comments, "But, the Mediterranean sounds nice... a little warm there, is it?"
     Looking back at Davydd, she comments, "New Port, Oregon to be exact.. it's where I met Will." Then she hears his comment about trees and sheep and quickly tries stifles a rather abrupt laugh. It doesn't work, unfortunately.

     Sakir smiles a glance at Tori, as he sits back and allows the conversation to redirect around him for the moment. He doesn't, however, seem to catch the comment about sheep and trees. "Yes, the sea is warm. Beautiful. Sunny." His smile goes deep with memory. "I miss it when I am away. Its winds whisper to me."

     Hands make a gesture and fiery eyebrows sweep upward, opening. Well. It's true...
     Davydd grins, giving Tori a once and twice over again. Cheeky. I like it. He goes back to smoking his cigarette and polishing off the first black-and-tan. "Hmmm... I've been to the Med. I like it well enough. Spain particularly." A glance to Edward. I always had a balls-to-the-wall great time in that blessed country.

     "Ah, Castille." Sakir murmurs, at Davydd's mentioning of Spain. "How I miss that land. Have not been there in quite some time. Perhaps I will do my best to go through there on my way through Italy."

     "Now, Espana," Edward glows, the name rolling from his tongue almost like a native. Where did the Eastender drawl go? "There...is a beautiful place," he agrees with Davydd, nudging him. "Th' sand...water...people...all beauty..."
     And then Castile is mentioned.
     "Castile," Edward nods, looking at everyone. "Marvelous. Alhambra," he chuckles. "Cadiz," he nods, wistful as he lists.
     "An' dancin'!" Edward chimes, inhaling deeply as he closes his eyes. "Hours upon hours..."

     The laugh calms and Tori nods at Sakir, murmuring, "I will have to visit there sometime... and Wales, too. I've never been there before." This is said as she looks to Davydd momentarily, catching the gaze, perhaps. Shifting a little in her seat, she leans back a bit and draws a leg up so that her knee can be seen poking just above the table.
     "I've just missed out on so much traveling, by the sounds of it.. I shall have to make up for lost time," she finally decides, grinning. Her wine is taken up again and lifted to her lips once more. She is not hurrying in this glass. Anyone who pays attention might notice that her mouthfuls only take small amounts at a time. She's taking her time to enjoy it, perhaps.

     Ah. Alhambra...
     Davydd goes quiet for a bit after that. A curious, wistful smile for that. Rescuing it as he did. Up to his knees in sand and blood. With Edward and William. Alfonso and Nasr. The moon even bled that night. Hanging low over Spain...
     The first cigarette is stamped out. Mention of Wales wakes him from his reverie and Davydd chuckles, "Up for seein' it? I can drive you there, if you want to go... I can show you Gwynedd. It's really the jewel of the country. Snowdonia, Mount Snowdon..."
     He glances to Edward and Sakir, bringing them back into his attention. Hands reach instinctively for the pack of remaining cigarettes and the lighter.

     Sakir notices Tori's lifting of her drink, and casually does the same to his own -- which had been forgotten till now. Though, as he lifts it he begins to speak again "I, myself, am not one for dancing. I prefer to curio shops, the hidden places of treasures down back alleys. The places were memory is made manifest." His gestures are casual, languid, and as he speaks he places his drink back down. Forgotten and untouched once more.

     "Who, like?" Edward quips at Davydd, then looks around the table. "Not me, right, mate? I've seen th' place..." he smiles.

     "No, not you," Davydd quips with a grin. "I was chattin up the bird..." Eyes widen, sparkling and he settles back with a smoky laugh.

     Edward smirks and drinks, winking at Sakir. Of course he didn't mean us.

     The glass is just barely lowered so that Tori can speak across the rim of it, smiling and going a bit wide-eyed. "Truly?" she asks Davydd, seeming surprised by the offer. Her eyes blink in disbelief at the man across from her. "I would love to see it..." she replies with a quick nod.
     Then Sakir speaks and Tori looks to him for a moment. "Curio shops... there used to be one in New Port.. I wonder if it's still there.." she comments, then looks back to Davydd, still surprised, it seems. And as she is called a 'bird', she blushes. This time, it's obvious. She can't help it. Chuckling, she hides behind her glass again.

     Sakir cannot help but to fall silent here. He watches the interplay between Edward and Davydd, and that between Tori and Davydd, with the keen eye of a researcher -- or student.

     "Curio shops...sounds like shoppin' t' me," Edward declares, smiling at Sakir. "You from Espana?" Edward wonders disingenuously at Sakir. Of course not, but it is a decent segue.

     A nod to that. There it is then. Done. "I like a good curio. I collect hunting gear and memorabilia. You know, medieval saddles, horns and such... bit of a bad habit that hobby. Course," Davydd laughs billowing smoke, "maybe that's just m'excuse for decoratin' with deer antlers." Eyes go wide again, and Davydd gives a look to Edward.
     And a flash of a grin.
     "I'm not all so much into art or all that. I'd rather have... instruments or astronomical guides and tools and all that. I leave the art to those with bigger wallets..."
      And now the black-and-tan is gone. A hand lifts, and Davydd gives wave for another round. It's all on him.

     The wine is eventually finished, the glass being set down again. Leaning back in her seat, Tori falls silent, listening to the conversation. Not really having much to say at this point, she just waits for an opportunity to jump back in again.
     Going to Wales... this should be interesting.

     A finger twists around a thumb ring. Gold and tourquoise sparkle in the light. "Espana? No." And yet no counter offering of his true native country.
     Another twist of the ring. "I prefer those items that have meaning," He says to Davydd. "Not just trophies of one sort or another.

     Edward nods at Sakir's answer, draining the last of his pint. A fine idea, that. A second. "I'm no collector," Edward's slur comes, fingers lighting up another cigarette. "Heathen that I am," he burbles, chuckling at himself as he makes another smoke.

     Fiery eyebrows cock up again and Davydd half-tilts his head to Sakir. "You'll get no argument from me..." And then he laughs. He looks to Edward then, eyes lifting only momentarily as his second black-and-tan arrives. "Ah now, Edward, be fair to yourself, man. You collect plenty..."
     Davydd stamps out his second cigarette. "In fact... I've the book to prove it. I'm tellin' ya, you're more in depth than Audobon when it comes to covering birds..."

     "I don't collect anything, either, so I suppose I can't really understand what it's like to do so... to have the desire to do so," Tori murmurs with a smile and a shrug. "So many people collect so many different things and for so many different reasons.. and through all of that, I never bothered. Strange," she adds.

     Audobon. Birds. Edward blinks and then laughs, falling back against the booth. He glances at Tori and Sakir, guessing they might not find such talk amusing. But it kills him. "Fuckin' Audobon," he snickers, getting a right laugh from that one.
     And it goes on, Edward leaning sideways, half-out of the booth...

     Wistful fog moves behind Sakir's eyes. "There is so much beauty and wonder lost to the world beneath sands, water or roots. I gather, so that it will not be lost again."

     That was good. Self-satisfied is the rumble of a chuckle in the Cymri's broad chest.

     Suddenly realizing the joke, Tori smirks and chuckles, shaking her head at it. Not commenting on it for now, she leans back in her seat, grinning away. Her empty wine glass is pushed away from her with the tips of her fingers.

     Furrowed brow and quirk of lips speak of confusion. The look is towards Edward, but Sakir says nothing. The island breeds strange people, and Sakir can accept this. If he can't accept strangeness in others, how can he live with himself afterall.

     "Oh, Davy," Edward smirks, "...y'never cease t' kill me!" In all these years. "Fuckin' cracker, y'are," he laughs, reaching next to him to pat Davydd Llewelyn on the shoulder. It is a warm touch, clearly from someone who has known Davydd a long time.
     "Oh," Edward tries to catch himself, clearing his throat with a long swallow from his pint. "No, I think friend Sakir here means somethin' else, don't ya, boyo?" Edward asks, leaning across the table to smile winsomely at Sakir.

     Large hands wipe at leaking eyes, but the grin is wide. The residue of laughter in it, left behind in warmth. And at the touch, there's but a good lean in from Davydd, and a tussel of his own. "You're a dear man," ah, the R's begin to trill and there's a foreign lilt prevalent upon his words, "...to laugh at my jokes after sae long..."
      How long could it be? They don't look past thirty, either of them. Or not much past it, in Davydd's case...
     But it can be -- and has been -- imagined that they've been doing this for more than half their lives. Since they was tots, says those in Kelly's establishment. Those who don't know better...
     Davydd calms his laughter with a great groaning exhale and leans back against the booth, large hand now swiping at the pint and carrying it to him. And green eyes glint brightly as they're lifted to Sakir. "Aye? No doubting it. So... you collect religious artifacts then?" How the Medieval mind leaps. How it does leap...

     Chuckling, Tori adds, "No, I don't think that's what the gentleman meant either..." She then hears Davydd's question to Sakir and turns her head, looking straight at the man next to her.

     "I do believe we are speaking of two completely different things, yes." Sakir says with a slight smile. He pushes his glass to one side, leaving a smear of condensation upon the table. "Some pieces of Religious art, yes." He considers a moment, twisting the gold ring on his thumb. "Mostly, though, items of personal importance to their owners. They speak more of the life that was once lived."
     Innocuous.

     Edward's eyes light up and he nods, grinning at both Tori and Davydd. "So, you can tell about someone's life...from th' things they own'd, eh?" He nods vigorously at this notion. "I can see that. So, you mean..." and he fishes a silver lighter from his pocket. "Something like this would be of interest...if 'twere older?"

     Coo, now this is interesting...
     Davydd sits forward. Eyes lit. Expression sober. This sort of thing is serious business to a Welshman. "Like divination? Or do you mean more modernly... their personality, like what they like to surround themselves with...?" He glances to all about the table -- Tori, Edward -- but lastly and finally on Sakir. He waits to hear this.
     It's like when the old woman of the village would come by the fort and be fed the best food as she handled an enemy's sword. Said she could see visions in the blood, the mad crone...

     Ice-blue eyes remain on Sakir, not looking at the others across from her for the moment. Though, at Davydd's mention of divination, those eyes go wide briefly. Tori's head tilts to one side, but she remains silent, waiting for the response.

     Sakir's eyes move to the lighter, as if drawn by magnets. "Yes," A squint. "If it were older." Perhaps. He then returns his gaze to his companions, a slight smile to banish any questions of strange behavior. A joke at his own expense.
     He then is taken aback by Davydd's behavior. "A divination?" Now uncomfortable. "What do you mean?" He pushes the glass back the other direction. "I'm an archaeologist, of sorts. Armchair anthropology." It sounds thin, though. "Yes."

     Archaeologist. Ah. Even Edward settles back some, understanding any interesting gifts were not involved. "Ach, come Davydd, yer makin' him dazy..." he says, sable eyes returning to Sakir. "I think he thought y' meant something else. Like...you had some ability or some such."

     "Ah, I see... so... if I handed you an antique ring or...something of that nature, you could, perhaps, give me the history of it? Place it in time, as it were..." Davydd grins suddenly. "I thought y' meant like those lassies on tele that can tell a man's past or future by handling an old watch or sommat..."
     Emerald and jade, the interplay of light upon those two very different stones. Such is the twinkle in Davydd's eyes. "Aye, I did," he says to Edward. "You know... like that boyo who bent spoons... what was that chap's name?"

     Smiling, Tori flickers her gaze away from Sakir. "Sounds interesting," she comments, looking to Davydd and Edward for a moment. "I think that's very interesting, actually.. being able to know something about old artifacts is quite an ability, I think," she adds, brushing back her raven-coloured locks from her face.
     Looking at her empty glass of wine, she glances up, looking for the waitstaff...

     A nervous glance to Tori, "I don't know anything about bending spoons." A slight chuckle as he twists his ring again. "But, I do know a lot of history. I could probably tell you where the ring was made." He relaxes slightly into his role. "If it was of peculiar variety, I may even be able to tell you the artist." Hands fold together, forming a symbolic wall.

Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 08:15 PM