It's been a relatively peaceful evening, all in all. The pints are flowing, the quiet conversations in the background unremarkable and soothing. Or, well, it was, until suddenly a burst of colour and noise and femaleness comes rocketing into the tavern, pausing only for a moment to look around in wild-eyed aggravation, before hurling itself at Davydd with a howl.
     It might or might not be the first time Davydd's had a woman throw herself at him, but probably not terribly often that it's happened like this - Drancy's hair is three inches longer than it used to be, down past her collar, and no longer fuchsia, but a pale white-gold, like the colour of the inner rings of a tree that's only just been cut open. Of course, she's in such motion, it's hard to notice finer details. "YOU DID THIS TO ME, YOU BASTARD!" Congratulations, Davydd, there's a blonde woman in a red shirt and black jeans trying to pounce you.

     You'd be surprised really. No one in Davy's is too terribly shocked, particularly not the waitresses known collectively as Davy's Girls. And Davydd has made good use of the term, in the past that is. For the past six months, it's been noted that he's been a perfect gentleman and damn near angelic...
     Course, depends on what your definition of near is...
     His pint was halfway up to his mouth when he heard the shouting. Mouth open and poised for a swallow, but stopped at bastard. Well, this is going to be an interesting night. He doesn't even recognize you, what with the sudden lack of colors that don't exist in nature's rainbow. The Guinness is up and out of range and Davydd -- stunning really, dead sexy in black leather coat and red woolen turtleneck -- is leaning back into the safety of the booth. "Why, I don't even know you, strange blonde woman I've never met..."
     Well-rehearsed that, and the bar's not buying this one, not even putting it on his tab. The large Welshman behind bar lifts his eyebrows and grins.
     "Looks like a ringer to me, Davy..."
     He switches his Guinness into his left hand, to defend himself with his right. Not that it'd take much...

     Changeable eyes regard Davydd furiously, and she almost spits. "Don't give me that shite!" And she's hauling off one bony fist, trying to swing a wild punch at you, oblivious to audience. "You DID this! I'm MARKED now, I can't even bloody go home, can't get buried, can't... can't..." She's breathing raggedly, cutting off speech in favour of assault. Not, of course, that she's anything like a trained fighter. Bruce Lee? She's not even Chung Li.

     But he has fought for centuries, albeit rarely with women. "Look, I'm really sorry but I haven't the slightest idea what you're on about," his voice is warmly even, one might even say amused. Well, he can't recall the last time someone threw a punch at him.
     And then he realizes it's you...
     Fiery eyebrows cock up and green eyes slightly widen. "Nice to see you again, Drancy. So... what's this all about...? Mark you, I never touched you." And I'd rather not, all the same to you. I end up getting shocked. "Why don't you have a seat, aye? We'll come to some... agreement over a pint. Kelly," he calls out to the bar, "... a pint of Guinness, diolch." Here, Welsh is acknowledged.
     A moment later: "Dyma fe..." and a waitress is heading over...

     Of course, when someone's already hauling off for a punch, that's not the best time to try talking reason to them. The punch goes wide, though, grazing your shoulder. And... surprise...
     There's no shock, no explosions, the dragons remaining coiled and contained on skin and under skin.
     The power's still there, but it's leashed - held back by some invisible barrier, crackling and seething angrily behind it... something's happened. Something's changed.
     Drancy, meanwhile, is mostly still angry, seething herself, jabbing a finger under your nose. "You," she spits out, "you made it so I can't even bloody go home. LOOK." She grabs the hem of her shirt, looking for all the world like she intends to haul her shirt off in the middle of the bar, oblivious to the crowd. You can take the Manic-Panic out of the punk, but you can't take the punk out of the manic panic.

     He has had a great deal of practice ducking...
     And not a drop of Guinness spills. Now that's talent...
     There wasn't a flinch, merely a twist to avoid you. Partly successful. And as her shirt's in motion, so goes the shouting in the pub. "We'll have none of that," Kelly shouts from the bar.
     The Guinness comes down and Davydd half-frowns. This is starting to strum the last nerve. "What are you talking about," he rumbles and leaning in, he lifts her shirt up to see for himself. And he blinks. Well, you don't see that everyday. "You've got me all wrong, Drancy. I can't draw...let alone do that. I haven't the talent at it..."

     Nine rings, interlocked in a circle around her navel, the lowest one partially covered by the line of her jeans. Nine rings, each a master's work of knots and lines, colours blazing and glossy enough that it looks as if, if you were to touch them, the colour'd come off on your hands...
     Drancy lets the shirt drop again, shoulders shaking, she's still so angry. "Look, here, Davydd, you black milk-sucking multihued glass-witted pathetic coal-dusted excuse for a lizard," she's got talent, hasn't she?, "if you didn't do it, then who did?" She jerks back and away, turning finally to apparently notice the rest of the room, glaring in general around before turning those changing eyes onto you again.
     "But fine. You don't want to admit it? I'll leave you here in your spiritual home, amidst your boon companions. Black Jack Davy's... hanh. Named after you, even!" And oh, but she's ready to charge off, half-cocked.

     Nine rings...
     Nine powers...
     Well, at least it's consistent...
     Davydd makes a great exhale, stamps out the cigarette that was dwindling down to nothing on its own anyway, and stands. "That's Lord black milk-sucking multihued glass-witted pathetic coal-dusted excuse for a lizard to you, miss."
     And suddenly your world goes topsy-turvy. You, lifted as easily as a napkin by the wind, tossed over his shoulder. "And you might say Black Jack Davy and I have sommat in common," he rumbles, clipping tone warm and held in expansive chest. Hmm... yes.. if you were to notice any of the posters of a pirate hoisting a wench over his shoulder, it might seem rather fitting and strangely reminiscent. "Now, can we be civil?" Davydd lilts, bracing you. "Hmm?"

     Consistency is great, if you realize it's being consistent. In Drancy's case, she has no such assurance, and being tossed over a shoulder to make the world go topsy-turvy, well, her world's already gone topsy-turvy - this just makes her anger flare up again. "Put - me - DOWN!" She beats ineffectually on your shoulder, squirming and struggling.
     This is uncomfortable, for her... too close, too much of the flesh. Too much memory, even if the power's held back...
     And the unknown, of course, makes her fearful, but, well, she's not going to let Davydd get away with this without a struggle. "Put me down," she warns, "Or... or I'll BITE."

     "Save yourself, I'll just enjoy it." And so he will, for reasons you do not know. Could not guess. "I'll put you down," he repeats it, "I'll put you down if you promise to be civil. Else, I'll have to hold you while Kelly calls the cops. And if there's one thing that lordly black milk-sucking multihued glass-witted pathetic coal-dusted excuse for lizards hate, it's a scene..."
     Davydd glances at the part of you he can see. "I'm going to count to three, then we're going to have a nice chat about your interesting evening. I'll even let you bum a smoke..."
     You're such a softie, Davydd Llewelyn...
     "One..."
     "Two..."
     "Three..."

     Drancy glares. Oh, she's angry. But she's no desire to deal with the police, as few punks do. "Fine," she mutters with venomous reluctance. "I'll be... civil. While we're here." She makes no promises about later, some native caution coming to the fore. "And I don't smoke."

      "Maybe you should start," he gruffs and sets you down, amazingly gentle. "No, don't. Nasty habit." I wouldn't do it if I thought it'd kill me. "Leave it to... what was that again? Black milk-sucking?" Davydd rolls out loud and strong laughter, riotous and warm, green eyes glittering. "I like that... I'm pinching it..." And he waves you to sit down.
     He gives the rest of the pub a wave and they go back to their own dramas, pints or whatevers. And on cue the second pint of Guinness -- the one for you, if you want it -- arrives. "Thanks, Fiona," Davydd quips to the waitress, "...you're a doll..."
     "No worries, Davy... miss," she smirks at you. She's been wanting to give Davydd what-for for months. Some of the waitresses are on your side...
     Davydd settles in his side of the booth, left hand around his Guinness, drawing it back to him. "I take it you were out cold when that happened. Did you go anywhere after you left the apartment?"

     Drancy continues glaring, but sits down, ignoring the Guinness. Doesn't smoke, and, evidently, doesn't drink... what kind of punk is she? What does she do? The waitress gets a slight nod, but other than that, not much.
     "Yes, and no. I went home. I was tired." And my head hurt... among other things... "If you didn't do it - who did?"

     "I wish I had an answer," he rolls, hands fishing in his leather coat for his cigarettes. "...that way, when you ambush me, I have an easy out..." The corners of his mouth upturn as green eyes flicker to you, "...other than throwing you over my shoulder. Actually," he chuckles, cigarette and lighter in hand, "...it was damned fun." He kills him, quite clearly. Chuckling still, he lights the cigarette and gives it a puff, fiery eyebrows waggling above the sudden fog.
     "So...what's this about not being able to go home and not being able to be buried... bit of an odd set of circumstances..."

     Drancy glares again. "You already have a girlfriend," she snipes. "Save the kinky shite for her and leave me out of it." Well, that wasn't quite as civil, but you did start it. Settling down, she picks up the Guinness absently, taking a sip - less out of desire for it than out of desire for something to drink. She promptly sets it back down, making a face.
     "My family is Jewish. I have a tattoo." Almost odd, isn't it, seeing that she's a punk? But then, she hasn't even got more than a bare minimum amount of body piercings, mainly the ears, and one eyebrow. "How do you think they'll feel? God... I'm so fucked."

     For a man of the 12th Century, he's amazingly liberal. He was once, however, a raging anti-semite. Who wasn't in England, apart from the gypsies? So he blinks and tries to understand the significance.
     It's lost on him...
     "I may have a girlfriend, but I'm not dead." He smirks. Not completely anyway. "I don't know how they'll feel. How did they take to the eyebrow bit? I'm not sure I follow the importance, sorry. Not Jewish."
     Davydd flicks ash from the burning end of his cigarette, something graceful with the edge of his thumbnail. Very stylistic. Damn near suave. "Did you have any weird dreams or... anything else odd?"

     Drancy scowls, leaning back in her seat and pulling her knees up a bit. "You can't be buried in a Jewish cemetary if you've got tattoos," she mutters. "Graven images are a sin before God or something." She's not a very good Jew, even if her parents would be horrified. Then again, by now, they're used to being horrified.
     "They didn't like the ring, but it's not an image... they want me to be a doctor, though." She says it like that's a sin in and of itself. "Or an accountant. Or a lawyer."
     Moreover, "They want me to get married and start having kids." Shock. Disgust. Irritation.
     Dreams? Drancy's eyes narrow suspiciously. "So it WAS you."

     "No," his hands outspread, cigarette held balanced, burning. "It wasn't. I would have the balls to tell you if I did. You don't know me well enough to know that, but ... take my word for it. Gonads tougher than English Oak. Graven images," hmm... oh yeah, I think I remember that from Christianity, as much as I ever paid attention to it, "...aye well, I guess I can see your point."
     But then you mention their visions for you, how you should be leading your life and he smiles, eyebrows opening. "You'd make a hell of a lawyer. You could out-argue the devil," he smirks. "But no... I mention dreams... well, it's just one of the questions one should ask. I had dreams, I think. Not sure. I don't remember them, really." Davydd breathes smoke, green sparkling in the grey.

     Drancy frowns at this, but less in anger than in perplexity. "I don't want to be a lawyer," she says with rather exaggerated patience. "I like who I am." Well. Sometimes.
     "What do you mean, you don't remember your dreams?" Her own dreams of the waking sort have been fading far too much, and here comes along other dreams, all set to swallow them up.

     Davydd shrugs, a roll of great shoulders, and he stamps out his second cigarette, another rush of mist leaving his mouth. A smaller tendril rising from the coals and ashes of the cigarette in the tray. "I don't really remember my dreams well. They're sort of a void. You know... I'm pushing forty... these happened a long time ago..."
     He's pushing 40 going on 840...

     Even naive and new to this as she is, she doesn't buy this, not for a moment. "No, you're not," she says with authority. "Don't give me that crap..."
     Eyes widen. How the hell did I know that?...
     Drancy shakes her head again. "If you're going to ask me questions," she says sourly, "can we either go somewhere else, or can I at least get vodka instead of this crap?" She can't really be English if she doesn't like Guinness, can she?

     "I don't look a day over thirty, I realize...but ... it's true," he leans back, settling in a sprawl in the booth. Guinness and cigarettes ignored. "Vodka," he blurts, eyebrows shooting upwards. "Well... alright then... I can respect that," he swivels about in the booth, waving over one of Davy's Girls.
     "So," he exhales, "not sure what sort of help I can offer you on the tats. Sorry it'll keep you from getting your Final Due. How are you feeling otherwise?"

     I'm feeling fine. Right. I could say that, but it's so not the truth, even I won't try it.
     "Like I've had sex for fortyeight hours straight without benefit of orgasm." Let's see how you cope with straight answers from a punk, lord smartypants dragon Davydd.
     Drancy orders her vodka, then settles back with the bottle and a shotglass. "Cheers." She pours a shot, then downs it. Gulp.

     Must be a woman thing. I've never had any trouble...
     "Well, that must be uncomfortable." How's that for understatement. "No wonder you're ready to kill a man." The grin streaks across his mouth, lighting up his features like a comet. Not literal light, of course, but figuratively radiant. "I'm sorry for not being more sympathetic to your plight. Can't you... you know... do something for yourself. Maybe yoga," he offers. "I hear it does wonders. Or you can do what I do, take drugs, drink and smoke." Davydd chuckles, and green sparkles in a wink. Just kidding.
     Well, more or less...
     "I'm not sure what to say. When I feel... blocked... I get laid..." He shrugs. What a perfectly guy thing to say.

     Drancy scowls almost audibly, it's such a black, loud scowl. She takes another shot of vodka, pouring it into the glass and lifting the glass in a sort of salute. "I wouldn't know, I'm the world's oldest specimen of female virginity to ever hit the punk-rave scene." Vodka makes her voluble, or at least more willing to confess her sins. Or virtues.
     "I wouldn't do yoga if you paid me. Why would I take drugs? And I drink from time to time. Watch me." The shot gets shotted as it was meant to be, which seems to make things a little more right in her world.
     "When I feel blocked, I take a fucking laxative." A pause. "It's not that kind of blocked."

     A virgin...
     He tries really hard to keep his eyebrows from creeping skyward. The Virgin Punk. Sounds like a movie, that. And he tries to keep the expression bland. But you can see the register of surprise. He's not gaping or bug-eyed or anything, but in the pause -- when Davydd is momentarily speechless -- shock wanders in...
     Well, throws the bloody door open, more like...
     "Well," Davydd begins warmly with a great exhalation and a hand raking through short copper hair, "...maybe that's it then, raving. Maybe clubbing. Expending energy... maybe... " and he leans in, his voice lowering, "...maybe by extending it you can learn to contain it..." Dark green eyes fix upon you for a moment. As if to say...
     That'd be a super idea...

     Drancy mmfs, downing her next shot. She's not drunk yet, surprisingly enough - apparently, she has a higher than usual resistance to vodka. Or she just hides it well.
     "Surprised you, didn't I." She smirks a bit. She knows how much of a shock it comes to people. Usually, she would never tell.
     "What about raving and clubbing? I go to raves and clubs all the time. S'my job." Her job. Some people would kill for a job like that. She's been doing it so long... "Extending what? I don't get you, mate."
     Changeable eyes regard this with quizzical confusion. At least she's not quite so angry.

     "You know...energy..." strong hand moves in a circular wave. "When I'm uptight anyway...and I do have those moments, believe it or not... I... busy myself. You might feel better..." And great shoulders lift in a shrug. Take it or leave it, I guess...
      As an extension of his shrug, his left arm extends, leather sleeve moved and watch inspected. "Shite... I have to go... speaking of clubs and raving," and Davydd grins, fiery brows waggling. "Phantasmagoria's been closed for damn near a month..." It feels longer than it's been, "... know it?"

     Drancy doesn't look like she understands what's being discussed. "Busy yourself?", she echoes, in an obvious near-complete lack of comprehension. She sprawls back for a moment, pulling up her knees.
     "SHITE!" She rockets up out of her seat. "That's tonight. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck..." Well, this got a reaction out of her. Vodka and glass're pushed away. "I have to cover it for work. Let's go. Split a cab?"

     Cigarette's gone and the Guinness is abandoned, and the leather settles around him as he rises. Pound notes leap from his fingertips. More than enough. More than a healthy tip...
     "Oh aye..." Davydd rumbles and his grin eases out. Sparkling eyes and rakish turn of mouth. "Sounds charmin'..." And so, maybe two birds will be killed with one massive stone. She'll work, she'll learn. That's the way of it. Afterall, what I can teach her really? If she's the magician, I'm the spell. I'm not the caster, I am what is cast...

Posted by rowan at May 08, 2003 08:17 PM