Another long night, putting the paper to bed, followed by staying up well into the morning to await the publisher's call, fix errors and difficulties, wait, and wait some more. Much drinking ensued among some of the staff, indeed. Alright, at least she hadn't had to be in to work in the morning. Fiona got home, and stripped down and fell into bed in t-shirt and a pair of shorts, and became one with unconsciousness.
     Restless dreams ensued, ones she couldn't quite wake up from, that shifted into light uneasiness and restlessness until finally, finally, she wakes up, stumbling into the bathroom to splash water on her face and see how bad she looks. Mrf. Same number of eyes as usual. Skin looks surprisingly decent for not having washed before bed. Blink. Lashes look ... different, somehow. - Odd. Bedhead. Hell's my hair sticking up like that for? She swipes at it vaguely. "Ow!" ...ow?
     A high-pitched screech echos off the tiles, followed by one very agitated Londoner reaching for her cellphone and punching in a number.

     Meanwhile, at Meniwell Tower...
     Our hero and the lady are resting comfortably, warmly, and drifting in the lull of an evening's passing pleasure. Some evenings drift like this. Waking, loving, sleeping, shifting, waking, loving, sleeping...
     You get the picture...
     And this would be one of those evenings. The bedding is piled up, covering them nearly completely, and it's pitch black apart from the royal blue lighting of a cell phone that rests on the lord's bed-table. There is the sound of breathing, the slow, dreaming rise-and-fall rhythm. Of the his and hers variety.
     Davydd lies on his side and somewhere beneath all those covers a thick muscled arm is thrown over the slender form of the woman in his hold. He's something of a bed hog, preferring to sleep on her as much as the bed that holds them...

     She's gotten used to being a makeshift bed. Somewhere under the pile of sheet, coverlet, and Welsh male is a person. Thank goodness Sandrine doesn't need to breathe, though old habits do die hard.
     And at her head? Upon a bed of copper and gold, Frik sleeps too, never so far away. Despite Davydd's repeated attempts.

     Fiona paces back and forth. "Pick up, you bloody great Welsh git, pick up!" Not that he can hear her, but she's a bit ... overwrought. Her pacing carries her back into the bathroom, and she looks at herself in the mirror, and blanches. Ears, eyes, cheeks ... still, yet, recognizably her, but ...
     "What the hell is he doing, communing with his inner corgi? - Davydd, for the love of God, pick UP!"

     I hear the bells of St. Mary's chiming in the distance...
     Wait... that's not a church bell...
     Beneath the mound of coverlets and sheets, the Welsh Male is in motion. Slow motion, but motion. The bed heaves as he groans, rolls over, bouncing the bed and reaching out with his hand. Another few rings pass by as he pulls the phone up to his ear.
     ...The first thing you hear is a long sigh...
     And then a very sleepy roll of half-Welsh, half-English. "This ...is the phone of Davydd Llewelyn. Davydd ...." fiery brows lift, but eyes are still closed, "...is sleeping at the moment.... " He'd go on, but that'd require more energy.

     What? Sandrine is quiet when Davydd moves, which means Frik must meow and knead Sandrine's head.
     "Frik..." she grumps, waving a hand at the cat.
     But ah. Someone's called. In truth, it's surprising more people don't call Davydd in the sleeping hours.
     Enough thinking.
     Frik, at the waving hand, decides to reposition herself, and Sandrine sighs, attempting to fall asleep once more.

     "Davydd? Oh, thank God." Whichever one, it doesn't much matter to Fiona. Her voice is fervent with gratitude. "Listen, I need help, I'm in deep shite and I'm not sure what's caused it or what's happened and you're the only one I can think of to call without going running to the sodding bastards who probably did this to me and anyway, I really don't want to call -them- and can you help me? - Please?" It's a breathless rush which likely makes almost no sense - especially not to someone who's half-asleep (or more than just half), but it trails off to a helpless tone of voice that just borders on sounding like a child, desperation and breathlessness combined. (After a sentence like that, you'd be breathless, too.)

     Fiery eyebrows knit together. He started listening at 'deep shite', but didn't really start comprehending you until 'sodding bastards'. "Hmm.. what? What are you talking about?" He says softly. A pause: Who the fuck is this? Oh, wait. "Fiona..." Another exhalation. "Slow down.... who's done what to whom? Calm down...start over..."
     And surely one with such excellent hearing as Ms. Jorgenson will have heard that entire rant. Davydd's voice is soft -- but there's no point in keeping quiet. She would have heard the girl if she were whispering...
     He slowly blinks open his eyes, then opens them widely. To snap his consciousness in place like a rubber band...

     Fiona. Fiona. Who's Fiona?
     But the voice is familiar. And frantic.
     Somewhere in the wash of disjointed awareness, the penny finally drops.
     Oh. Drancy.
     And now, the next part.
     What's wrong with her?
     Sandrine doesn't rush to consciousness, but does decide to turn over to face Davydd, with a "...move, Frik..." barely audible. The cat takes the hint, and after a splaying arch, drops off the bed. Perhaps it's more interesting to see what the dogs are up to.
     Sandrine sighs and opens her eyes to watch Davydd on the phone, she still covered in a pile of bedding. It is winter, afterall.

     And in the moments between the fall of his voice and the sure rise of Fiona/Drancy's, Davydd shifts in the bedding, turning to Sandrine. And one hand finds a hip...

     "Start over?" Fiona stares for a moment at the phone, as though it's grown another head. One with pointy ears. "All right, Davydd, I'll bloody start over." Her voice has a slightly nervy, not quite biting edge to it - she's clearly feeling quite stressed.
     "I woke up after an unpleasant night's sleep. Day's sleep. Something like that. I walked into the bathroom. Are you getting all this down?" She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm, while her tension translates to movement, bare feet thudding on floorboards. "I look at myself in the mirror, and I have ears which look like if they were covered in fur, could belong on a bloody fox. I'm a bit distressed."

     And we're on a cell phone, broadcasting this out to ... anyone who wants to listen...
     "Yeah," he grunts, "... I can see how that would be." And then you hear a muffled sound, Fiona, as his hand covers his phone.
     "She's a bit distressed," Davydd murmurs, eyes open now, focusing on Sandrine in the otherwise dark. "She sounds as bad as I was earlier. Mind if she comes over... I don't want this broadcast over British telcom..."
     Davydd slowly uncovers the phone. "Hang on a moment, Dra... Fiona...just... close your eyes, take a deep breath and count to ten..."

     She's realized she's upset.
     "She should not talk on a line like that," Sandrine observes, mind regurgitating what it's processing.
     "She's not...intoxicated, is she?" Sandrine murmurs, waving a hand and nodding at the same time.

     It's all he can do to keep from laughing. My god, did you just crack a ....joke? Davydd sighs out a groan, the bed sounding beneath him as he half rolls onto his back. "Listen... I'm at the flat. Meniwell... remember where we are?" Or do I have to give everyone my location as well as my life story?

     She stares at the phone again, but does take a deep breath. Of course, it sounds more like the type of breath which is used in order to then yell something - but Fiona doesn't. Instead, she holds it, apparently while counting. Finally, an exhale, and she resumes pacing. "Right." A pause, as she looks in the mirror. No, they're still there. "Now what?"

     "Put on a hat and come over to the flat. Fuck," Davydd groans, "I'm rhyming... this doesn't bode well." Riot. "Remember where we live? The penthouse flat... Meniwell. Just tell the bloke at the desk that you're expected. He'll ring me, and I'll give you the room number." Precautions, precautions.
     He settles with a sigh, free arm winding around Sandrine. "We'll be dressed by then, or... at least I will be. Alright?"

     Are you talking to me? Sandrine blinks, not sure who the comment was meant for. But the bed creaks as she rolls over and to a stand, so she might make herself presentable for a guest.
     What time is it anyway?

     Tempted though Fiona may be to inquire as to why anyone wouldn't be dressed, the thought actually doesn't cross her mind. "Sure. I'll be over as soon as I can find a hat which doesn't make me look like a refugee from a Yank Easter parade." Pause. "Thanks." Click.
     Thus begins the mad hunt for clothing which will ... hide certain obvious changes to Fiona's build, body, face, and so forth. She doesn't care what it looks like, not really, pairing a turquoise silk blouse of almost tent-like proportions with snug faded jeans and black tabi boots, jamming a motorcycle helmet - left by a band member she once interviewed at her old flat - over it all. A pair of light riding gloves and hunting jacket in proper pink, and she's out the door.
     Well... they'll be staring too much at the riot of colour to notice her ears, even if they were in view, anyway...

     The phone calls over and Davydd collapses back on the bed, phone tripping out of his fingers and he sighs at the ceiling. "How would you like some tea?" Davydd wonders of Sandrine. Not quite ready to stand up, get moving, get dressed.
     Davydd turns his head upon the pillow, taking the moment to watch Sandrine stand up and move about. "It's late. Early," he answers, as if reading her mind -- and maybe he did. "She won't stay long. I'll try to get it sorted."
     I will have to pull out the big guns tonight...
     Davydd closes his eyes and sighs. Do I really have to move?

     Tea sounds like a good idea. Sandrine, padding about, finally slips on a robe as she circles near her side of the bed. Go here, go there.
     But tea is the Great Unifying Factor.
     "I'll put on a pot," she finally figures out, tying her belt as she heads out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen.

     The door's locked and Fiona catches a taxi - someone she knows slightly, even, is driving it, someone from the punk movement - fortunately, motorcycle helmets are unifyingly disguising, and she mutters and grunts, pays, and leaves, walking the remaining four or five blocks to Meniwell Towers, hoisting open the door with a bit of jerky motion. This ... should be interesting, trying to get security to agree to send her up...

     And Frikka, feeling that the full surrender of the bed is nigh, hops up and promptly proceeds to walk across Davydd's head and hop onto his chest. "Alright, alright," he barks, "I fucking take the hint already..." Pause. Grumble. "Troublesome puss..."
     With a mighty groan, Davydd sits up, swings legs about, rakes his hands through his hair -- making the bronze stand on end -- and he stands with a stretch, grabbing the nice warm robe thrown across a nearby chair. He grabs the pair of lounging trousers and pulls them on as he heads to the hall and the living room area beyond it.

     The kitchen is alive with more than tea. Certainly there's a pot on, and a tray is out to set everything upon. But the oven's on as well. The sound of a closing refrigerator door breaks the general quiet. Sandrine's whipping up something quickly to go with the tea, most likely, never content to seem unprepared.
     "Here you go," she whispers to the dogs and the cat that's made it over to her. Fresh water is set down. Sandrine's happy to work in silence, but given the time, her quiet may be due to other pressuring issues. Like undeath.

     Downstairs, there's a bit of an argument going on between the helmeted Fiona and the security guard on duty. "Look, I'm telling you, he invited me. No, I'm not bloody well going to take off the helmet. Just call them and they'll tell you! Oh one nine five. As I said."
     "You look awfully scruffy, miss, to be here at all, let alone have me bothering our residents."
     Fiona draws herself up to her full height, old habits kicking in (whose old habits?). She says haughtily, as best she can through the helmet, "I am Lady Fiona Arundel. Now either call them, or I'll call them myself and tell them how abominable you're being!" Noblesse oblige, indeed.

     He can move silently if and when he wants to, but there's heavy padding of Welsh male feet coming toward the kitchen. That stride of his that announces him: there be dragons here. Davydd pokes his head in the kitchen, quirking a smile, even if drowsy. "What are you doing? Hors d'oveurs?" Purposely mispronounced. Davydd comes into the kitchen, hand to the small of his woman's back. "You're going to spoil them," meaning the dogs.
     The cat's already spoiled...
     A press of his mouth to her temple and Davydd steps away from Sandrine, leaning against the counter, staring at the kettle. Boil, damn you, boil.

     "Something small," Sandrine says, smiling as she goes back to the refrigerator. She's stopped watching the water, content now to prepare grapefruit quarters and strawberries. "Quick scones," she murmurs, motioning to a tupperware container of some dough. Always prepared, at least sayeth the Scouts.
     "So, what was she saying? What was the problem?" A quick clarification in case she did miss something in the hearing. "Did something happen to her?" Sandrine leaves the fruit to check on the sheet she initially tossed into the oven.

     The act doesn't quite convince the security guard of anything but the possibility that Fiona is insane, but there's just enough room for reasonable doubt that he picks up the phone, keeping a wary eye on the woman. "I'll call, miss, but if you're lying, I'm also calling the p'lice."
     "Fine, fine," Fiona says impatiently. "Just get on with it." She's reasonably sure Davydd won't let her go to jail. Reasonably.
     With another suspicious look, the number's dialed, causing the phone to ring upstairs...

     Eyes widen appreciatively. Scones? He looks to the kettle, forgetting all about that whole 'watched pot never boils thing'. "Well, sounds like she's undergoing some involuntary or accidental... hmm... appearance? changing? I can sort that out... I think... or show her how maybe. But we'll see when she gets here. She claims her ears have gone all pointy. Sounds a bit too 'Midsummer Nights Dream' to me." Davydd flashes a grin, then winks.
     And then the phone rings...
     "Ah... that should be her, then... I'll get it..." And he takes a look at himself as he passes from the kitchen to the living room. Making sure the robe is closed. He's in dark blue -- good color for him -- both robe and trousers are cotton. No shirt grabbed, so tattoos at his chest are partly visible.
     "Send her up," he says into the phone, before he even gets a: hello, how are you, who the hell is this girl down here....

     Sandrine smiles and nods, peering at her oven. Oh well. She returns to the fruit, picking up the pace to finish as Davydd goes to the door.

     The man is left blinking, slightly stunned, at the phone. "Y-yessir." He stares at Fiona, as if to say, 'but how-?'
     Fiona smirks triumphantly through her visor, and marches to the elevator. Sweetly, over her shoulder, she says, "Told you." Small victories when your life is disrupted are good for the soul.

     Well... this should be interesting...
     Davydd heads to the front door, going about the process -- and it is a process -- of unlocking the door. The corgies troddle -- that's a trot and a waddle -- to the door behind him, enormous ears poised forward and grins broad.
     Davydd leans against the door, closing his eyes. "How's the tea coming?" he booms...

     "Fine," Sandrine replies, a lot less boomy. "Just another few minutes and the scones will be done." There's a clinking as she comes into the main living area, broad tray set for tea. Shuffling in her cream robe, she looks around, trying to find a spot comfortable. A shrug, and she moves towards the breakfast nook towards the greenhouse patio instead.

     That's when the knocking comes by the colourfully dressed, helmeted figure just outside the door. She's still a bit edgy, but that helmet is not coming off just yet....

     "Too bad we have company," he rolls out -- loud enough that even the helmeted wonder out there could hear him. She'll miss the leer he gives the woman in the cream-colored robe, the waggling of brows and the wide, flash of a grin, streaking like a comet after her.
     The door swings open wide, and there's a Davydd in his almost-presentable skivvies. A thick cotton robe, dark blue, and dark blue cotton lounging trousers. He's barefooted, and the robe's tied loosely enough where you see at least half of one sizable tattoo at his chest.
     And as Davydd sees the helmet, his fiery eyebrows knit, the grin goes cock-eyed and he nearly laughs out loud. "Hells Angel calling?"

     Behind Davydd, passing across the room to disappear into the kitchen, is a wispy, robed figure. Well, was. Sandrine's vanished into her domain, leaving him to do the perfunctory greetings.
     On the breakfast table, a tray. Terribly civilized, of course.

     Under the helmet, Fiona flushes a bit, not really having intended to ... 'interrupt' things. Voice slightly muffled, she says, "I don't own much in the way of hats, Davydd. And I was in a bit of a hurry. I think you'll see why, in a bit. Can I come in or is it not a good idea?" Well, it's probably not a good idea anyway, but she's feeling a bit short on options.

     "Come in, come in," he insists, "...Sandrine's made tea and scones with jam, of course. We wouldn't be British if there weren't." Well, come to think of it, neither he nor Sandrine are British. Well, in the modern meaning of the word he's not -- though, truth be told, he's more British than most people on the island anymore. He rakes a hand through his short hair, making parts of it stand on end, and he closes the door behind her.
     "Let's have a look at you. I promise I won't laugh," he drolls out, arms folding against his chest. And now the dragons and blue swirls are hidden. "Well, if I do, you can pick a spot and kick me, wot?" All teasing aside, Davydd motions you to remove your helmet and come in.

     The apartment does waft now with aromas of something baked. In the kitchen, there is the requisite shuffling.

     Fiona looks a bit suspicious, but steps inside - before she even so much as touches the helmet. It's been buckled securely into place, and she pulls off her gloves, revealing slender, elegantly manicured hands with long, graceful fingers, then gets to work on the strap. Easily done. Then she works on pulling the helmet off, which it seems a bit reluctant to allow. Finally, it comes loose with a slight pop and fshh of mussed hair.
     And, well - oak-blonde hair falls down to around waist-length, a pair of delicately tapered ears poking up through the waving tresses. Changing eyes are large and distinctly possessed of an unusually heavy epicanthic fold, cheekbones just a little bit sharper than they used to be. It's unmistakably her, but - there's no other way to put it. Davydd's faced with a very unhappy-looking elf.
     "I think you see my problem."

     From the kitchen archway, there's a shuffle and noisy stop. A rattling blurts out, but it too instantly stills.
     "Blessed Odin..."
     Sandrine stands there, rather stunned and wincing. That has to be uncomfortable. She shakes her head and steps down from the kitchen, quickly walking to the table and setting down what smells liked fresh scones with the sugary aroma of fruit.
     A sigh, and she walks towards where you both stand.
     Yes, yes that would be a problem.

     "Holy shit," Davydd thinks to say, and his hand comes up and rubs his unbearded chin. "I see what you mean. Not saying you look bad, you're just very..... puckish. Huh." Hmm. Huh. Heh. Well. He's almost speechless. But then his hands lower, arms unfolding. "You know... this is easily remedied..." And then he smiles.
     "But first," Davydd says, turning toward the nook near the greenhouse patio, "...some tea and something to eat. I'm starving." Get your mind out of the gutter. "Anything else happen?"

     "Did you look at her?" Sandrine says to Davydd as she meets him on his return. Hand pushes his shoulder, demanding he turn back around to see his guest. Boys, she seems to sigh.
     "You poor thing...what...happened?" she asks, trying not to be impolite. But, heck, it's the obvious question.

     She turns quickly, far more quickly than she previously ever moved, though it's not out of aggression, just startlement, and Fiona blinks at Sandrine. "...Oops. Uh, sorry, sorry." She takes a slight step backwards, feeling the interloper yet again.
     "So glad," Fiona adds, a bit dryly, "that you see what I mean. Good thing I haven't got to go in to work just yet. I can't go in looking like this." A pause. Anything else? "Wasn't this enough?" Another pause, as she blinks at Sandrine. "I woke up?"

     Woke up. Sandrine shakes her head, not really understanding all of this. "Is this permanent?" she asks, looking at Davydd, as if he knows something.

     Yeah I looked at her, says the look. But he's far less panicked than the Elfgirl and far less shocked than his love. Davydd looks between them, then pours tea for three. "It doesn't have to be, no. I think one may call this an.... outer manifestation of an inner power or affinity?" I'm just bullshitting here, really. Making it up as I go along. Davydd rolls broad shoulders slightly. "I had some really wild dreams myself." Could be connected, could be not. "But fortunately I didn't sprout any new body parts... scone?" he asks blithely.
     "It's just a shape," Davydd mentions to the room. "Like any other. Matter is matter. You can shape yourself ...however you like. It is no different, really, from taking an altogether different shape. It takes energy to do," another shrug. "But it is not impossible."

     Violet eyes narrow slightly at Davydd, not quite soothed. "Now you're sounding like Huw," Fiona grumbles, shaking her head to the offer of food, even as her stomach rumbles. She's still a bit upset, and looks to Sandrine. She understands, even if he doesn't! "I don't," she adds, "remember much about my dreams. Just ... a lot of running about in them. And I woke up and nearly shite myself. - Sorry."

     Oh, Mr. Professional now. She'll not mention he was screaming for his mother last night. But that's another story. Sandrine comes over and takes a seat, deciding to stay quiet for now.

     Bah. Screaming for my mother. As if. I barely knew the woman. I was screaming for a fire blanket, that's for fucking sure. But I got over it. As soon as I knew my shit wasn't on fire...
     Davydd's eyes widen, forest green glimmering, as the scones are set down. He suddenly goes from 36 to 10 as he reaches for one. "So... speaking of Huw... have you been taught any of your powers yet, or did they bless you and kick you out to learn the hard way like they did me? Any info? I'd be happy to teach you how to ... alter yourself," so he says, somewhat muffled as he downs a part of a scone. Lord in heaven, that is good. Green eyes settle on Sandrine for a moment, somewhat lingering, then flick over to Fiona. "Or... you can let me give it a go. Not everyone's powers or...gifts are the same. I have one, however, that should be able to return you to... normal." Much as you were ever normal before, that is.
     Thick arms fold over a tattooed chest, visible, as the rest of his torso becomes as the robe comes untied. He's wearing lounging trousers though, so... no harm, no foul. "I can restore you," Davydd says seriously, eyes locking onto Fiona. "Back to the ...condition or appearance if you will... of the first night I met you. It will be permanent." And so he offers. A glance to Sandrine. "And I'll need a good pillow afterwards," he whispers.

     Folding her arms over her chest, Fiona hunches her shoulders a little, feeling a bit defensive - not because of Davydd specifically, but because of ... circumstances. "I haven't seen Huw since we broke up. Haven't seen Hwyll since Huw took over. Huw told me ... a little bit, but I hadn't really mucked about with it all that much - I was a little concerned about shifting something and ... getting stuck. They yammered at me a lot about possibilities, but not an awful lot about what might actually be, or actually was, which ... didn't necessarily help a whole hell of a lot."
     Normality's gone on a nice long vacation, hasn't it? "It isn't," she says with exaggerated politeness, "that it's not a cute look. It's just that I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to get to and from work like this, and I'm not about to give up my job to go off to be all la-de-da queen of the little people."

     The kitchen table's filled with things to keep nervous hands occupied. A small tray holds a teapot and the requisite milk and sugar, along with three cups. Another holds the plate of currant scones, still rather warm, along with a small assortment of jam and marmelade. A last plate holds cut grapefruit and pear, for the snacking sort.

     Sandrine decides it's time for a scone. She picks up a small plate and puts it in front of herself, setting scone on top. Tea's the next thing her hands reach for, she content to be quiet...she does not seem to have much to offer on fae people, though she does know that pointy ears are not the fashion.

     That's easy to answer. Davydd tips his head, "You can't. Not like that. Not if you want to be in the functioning world. And not if you want to live a long life. But I'm not going to force you. If you want to be ... yourself again," his arms unfold, "I can do that here and now. And then... hopefully teach you something of shifting, just in case. It's handy to know."
     Davydd pushes away from the table, his tea getting cold and the scone abandoned. He stops when he comes to stand right in front of her. And there's none of his usual quipping or bahing or rolling or widening of his eyes. Serious, perhaps, in a way she's never seen. Maybe in a way Sandrine has never seen. And the usual accessible demeanor... well, it has not changed so much -- he's still Davy-bach. But there is a power, a strength, a command, and a presence that normally he does not brandish. The air is alive with it. "There's a reason fairy folk don't live in our world, Fiona. They're not meant to," Davydd says softly. "But those who are... blessed, or cursed, or gifted by them... like us... still need to move in this reality. Violet, slanted eyes, elf-tipped ears, and hair that suddenly sprouts a foot... makes for a lousy disguise. And believe me," fiery eyebrows lift slightly, in emphasis, "...there will be times, if there has not been already, where you will want ...and need... anonymity. Do you think any of my friends know the first thing about what I'm able to do?" He pauses only briefly. "Before you, before Sandrine... there was not a soul on this earth who knew me from Adam. And I want to keep it that way. And one day, you will likely want the same."

     "It'd be nice if someone'd just tell me what I did to be so 'blessed', but I'm guessing either that you don't know, or if you do, you're not in a position to tell me." Fiona slouches down into a seat, pulling her hair back. "The hair hasn't grown for a while, so leave it alone, but go ahead, bob the ears and get my face to stop looking as though I've got a really tight braid, and we'll ... figure something out." She hopes.
     A pause, and the editor adds, "If I'm coming across as snide, I apologize, but it's ... a coping mechanism. This threw me for rather a bit of a loop." Fucking A.

     Sandrine looks up at Fiona curiously at the 'why me' question. "Why not you?" she says evenly. "Why does anything happen? If you continue to ask that question, it will be hard to live your existence in a way that you determine, control, and enjoy." Fingers shake out a napkin and lays it delicately over Sandrine's lap. She exhales as she drinks a bit of her tea, watching you both over it.

     He had words on the tip of his tongue. Words of sympathy and empathy. But then she spoke and Davydd pivoted. Turning toward the sound of such... obvious wisdom. There is a smile that eases out upon his entire expression.
     You do not speak often, cariad. But when you do...
     "Why not you. And why not me," bronze eyebrows lift as he turns back to Fiona. "And if I knew, Fiona, what it means, I would tell you. Well," Davydd takes a clearing breath, rubs his hands together and places his hands on Fiona's face, lightly cupping it. As if she were his child and he was about to give the lass a praise and a kiss.
     The touch is light. Where flesh connects there is an instant lift of power, humming, strumming. Not quite the explosion of when you first met -- that was, in part, the tree's fault -- but nevertheless shocking. Holding you still, Davydd looks to you. Dark green eyes becoming the hills and valleys and mountains of Powys and Gwynedd. And his voice comes in a Welsh whisper, sing-song.
     The lilt and drag of an old tongue...
     And there is a flush of warmth throughout you -- within, without. Visions of bright sun -- sunlight he hasn't seen for nearly a thousand years -- its golden light moving over the earth, the Dragon's Egg. And the purple flowers of the heather fill your consciousness.

     Eyes close tightly, not quite in a frown, expression screwing up into concentration. It's difficult not to react, to twitch, to rise, whether to run or to fight or to - it doesn't matter, does it? Fiona digs her fingernails into the tops of her thighs, trying not to react - badly.
     She is entirely too warm, skin and pulse alike, temperature raised beyond the norm for humans, despite her not looking feverish, particularly. It's the energy's fault - her own energy, rushing out of her as though to shout and greet the world : Here am I! Here am I! Those of faerie can be subtle, but subtlety comes with practice, and this has ... rather burst in upon the Arundel. Fiona bites her tongue, hard.

     Sandrine lowers her cup to the table, fingers interlaced about the porcelain. Quiet comes easy to her, a veneer of almost-invisibility. It would work, her shielding, save for the gleam of burnished hair that flows around her face. That, she cannot hide. Blue eyes move from subject to actor, narrowing as they focus on Davydd and assess his situation.

     One simple phrase to call the power up. One simple phrase to focus it. Three words times three for nine in all to wake the dragons of the heather's balm. And he says no more.
      ...What Sandrine can see is bright, bright light, and at nine points does that bright light turn blue. The rest of it filled with sparkles. He could light up all of London with that aura...
     ...Pointed ears shrink...
     Eyes must burn as they, too, return to normal...
     Fingers...
     Arms...
     Legs...
     And all that's in-between is flushed with heat from a sun that is close at hand. Fingers upon her cheeks press a little, but gently. Still the hold is gentle...
     Hair...
     It shrinks as quickly as it once grew. To the shoulders. And it was a wild color then. Like wild berries. Not that unlike heather blossoms. Back to the night where he ran into her and offered her a hand to lift her up where she had fallen on the sidewalk...
     His fingers lift lightly from her skin, and a cool breath of spring air moves against her. A sudden cooling when Davydd removes his touch, and leaves the mirror image of Drancy The Punk behind him. He blinks. "There," he murmurs, and he seems deflated a bit for certes. Like he'd just run a mile or so. In mud. With an exhale, he sinks to sit on the sofa once more. "All back to the beginning. Even the hair. You know, I like it better short." And then he smiles.

     She hisses a bit, biting down to keep from commenting at the burning - or, worse yet, screaming bloody murder. Fiona may not be Drancy, but she's still ... well ... Tears run down her cheeks, but well, there's no help for that. She blinks her eyes open cautiously, and while they're changable now, as they ever were, the colours they tint between are ... normal enough. "What - I told you to leave alone the bloody hair!" Well. She's still female. And herself.

     Eyes that lingered up Davydd leave him once he sits down at the table again. He seems none the worse for wear, though Sandrine, or anyone for that matter, could guess he might be weary. She keeps her confidence, and while Fiona worries about her hair, Sandrine pours Davydd a fresh cup of tea.

     "Would you rather have to bleach it, or go back to the female Mr. Spock look?" he drolls out, cocking up an eyebrow and smirking. "It's the best I could do, lass. I put you back ... where I found you," he murmurs. "Ah, a blessing to be sure," he continues in a low voice to Sandrine. "Diolch," he says for the tea. And he reaches for the rest of his scone.
     A bite of it and he closes his eyes for a second. He's not noticeably weary or exhausted. And even if he were, it would not last long. That is the blessing and the curse, for being both the spell and the conductor of a spell's energy. Glamour begins to rise, and he to recover immediately. Or maybe it's the tea.
     "If you want your hair long and oaken as it was, close your eyes, breathe deeply, focus yourself and imagine that you are growing roots straight to the center of the world. Hold the image in your mind and will it to be so." A pause. "Might as well start with the easy shite..."

     "...I'll bleach it." Fiona's expression is one of wary resignation, and very slowly, she uncurls her fingers from her thighs, looking around as though half-expecting something to bite her. "I'm not keen on looking like something ready to be made into a cinema presentation, or into some ogre's dinner."
     She crosses her legs, still moving very slowly, and looks between Sandrine and Davydd for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Easy. Right. Alright... now? Or should you have your tea, first?"

     Davydd rolls his shoulders, lifting the cup of tea, taking a grateful sip. "Up to you. There's a cup here waiting, might need a refresh. Scones are... wonderful as ever. It's a good thing I am an active man, else Sandrine'd have me as plump as a pea with all she cooks." Eyes wrinkle in the corners, a grin at the rim of the cup. He falls quiet for a moment or two. Feel free to fill the space in between.
     Maybe he needs a moment after all....

     How does one fill in? Sandrine's not one for smalltalk, and this situation is the oddest she's seen. "Well, at least you can go back to work now and do the things you normally do," she assesses, leaving her cup upon the table as she sits back against the chair's upright. Crossing her legs, she adjusts the folds of her cream robe.
     "Is everything else alright then?" Sandrine asks, head tilting to the side as she watches Fiona.

     Lifting her head a bit, Fiona glances wryly to Sandrine. "I've no idea. For all I know, I'll get home and my bathtub will be full of adders - at this point, I'd almost consider it normal, just call animal control and blame it on a psychotic ex-boyfriend, or something." She folds her hands delicately in front of her on the table. "It was ... a sudden shock, followed by general incomprehension..."

     "You..." Sandrine goes on, "...have had a lot of things happen to you lately. It must be tough," she wonders, attention focused for now. "What about your family? Can they help you in some way? I guess," her chin dips a little, "They do not know anything about what's happened to you..."

     He must be tired. He's not talking. Call the papers! Stop the presses! Davydd's.... quiet...
     He sips at his tea, looking into the cup. Drinking it slowly until it's gone. The scone is left as it is for now. He'll save it for later. Setting the cup aside, Davydd rests his elbow on the table, and then props his head up with his hand. Yes, he is tired, glamour returned or no. That was not a small job.
     He's done bigger jobs, however... and there's always a price for it. Healing takes work...
     As Sandrine speaks, Davydd makes no move to interject, quip or launch into a rant of humor.

     "Not a thing, no," Fiona's voice is a bit tired, but almost amused. "They're delighted that I've become ... more ... socially acceptable. That's the only change they know of. Mum and dad're now hinting gently about bringing nice boys home, so they can size them up to see if they're the 'right sort' to take over the family line, and of course produce more heirs - they're a bit touchy about it, and don't find jokes about adoption amusing, much."
     Drancy or Fiona, it makes no difference. Fuchsia hair shrugs with her shoulders. "I'm ... not too sanguine on the odds of my ever being quite as socially acceptable as they'd like, even if I'm no longer throwing myself off stages and bridges and trying to mace policemen. Too much's happened for me to settle into being a rep."

     "A...rep?" Sandrine asks, not familiar with the term, seeing how she squints slightly. Ah well, her face slackens. "Have you thought of...doing some family research? To see...if you can find out if...well, find answers to your questions?"

     Davydd is listening. His eyes are in motion from Sandrine to Fiona. Attentive. Not missing a beat. He readjusts slightly, clearing his throat as he does so, and then finally settles back, leaving scone and tea behind. Arms fold against his chest again, tattoo ...vivid upon his skin. Physique for the moment inadvertantly on display. Man must hit the gym every day...

     "Representative, sorry. Representing the family name. And - research? Sure." The question amuses Fiona a bit. "How far back would you like to hear the begats? On my father's side, that is - my mum's side's new money. More ben this and ben that."
     She leans forward, finally helping herself to some tea, very carefully. "I did, in fact, haunt the Registry office a bit, though not for very long. Quickly realized that everything they had, I'd already seen at some point or other in my father's papers and books. So..." She blinks, turning to peer at Davydd at the throat-clearing.

     By the time anyone looks over at him, his eyes are fixed on the ceiling and his thoughts, fingers drum against the unbearded chin. "You know... I was pondering a trip to Scotland," comes the soft lilt of the Cymri's voice. "And before you think this is a total non sequitor, Scotland's still a ... wild world. And I know of a woman there who... well... she may be able to help."
     Davydd looks back to you both, expression droll -- like he's on the edge of popping off in more typical Davydd-like style. "I was thinking of going for myself... but now...well...hmmm... who knows. You willing to give it a shot?" he says to Fiona, green eyes glancing to Sandrine.

     "Well," Sandrine tilts again, looking at the archway to her kitchen. "There is research, and then there's research. What of stories of those individuals? Strange events or habits that surrounded them? Every family has the stories. Then," she nods, "...you take those stories and match them up with phenomena," a big word that causes her to grin as her attention returns to the table, "...that you are experienced with."
     Scotland?
     Sandrine pauses, waiting to hear more of this suggestion.

     "Scotland?", Fiona echos, blinking at Davydd. "Sure, I suppose. I've family up there, anyway. Mum and dad won't be half-pleased, they've been trying to get me to make the rounds for ages."
     She raises an eyebrow, and adds, primly, "I would like to know more first, though, please." Turning her head towards Sandrine, she shrugs wryly. "I can try, though they're pretty good at hushing things up. Still ... I can check the library."

     "Just a random thought..." comes the Cymric roll, and an eyebrow lifts in a fiery arch. "All sorts of... interesting folk up north. One in particular... by the name of Marta. She... takes care of the wild things," green eyes widen slightly then return to normal. "And we're certainly that. Anyway," exhale, "...she may be able to provide either some answers on your magic and what to do with it or... maybe put you in contact with someone who could. And, more importantly, someone on this plane of reality. She's a good woman, a real live maid o' the heather," he smiles and winks at that. "May provide some information. And some's better than none..."

     Sandrine looks to Fiona. She doesn't seem to have any wisdom on the subject -- her pale blue eyes don't light up at the mention of the name. Settling back into her chair, Sandrine's offered her suggestion. The rest is up to Fiona.

     Fiona's eyes remain fairly blank. The name, clearly, means nothing to her. "Sure," she agrees. "I'd like to find out more. It beats not knowing if tomorrow I'm going to be a size four or a size fourteen without the help of Belgian chocolates. Or if I'm going to just be picking up on radio signals from Mars."
     She holds the cup in her hands, more as though taking warmth from it than as if she's terribly thirsty. "Sorry, by the way, for... uh. Bursting in on you like this."

     "Bah," comes the long, drawn out and very familiar voice of The Davydd You Know and Love. And he waves it off, reaching over to pick up the tea. "I needed to stop hugging the covers anyway, oes, cariad?" he says to Sandrine, a flash of a grin, a sparkle of green and periwinkle in the wink. And he laughs, quick-fire again.
     Energy renewed...
     Probably doesn't bode well for Sandrine, if she had thoughts of curling up in bed and not moving, that is...
     Davydd rises, tea and scones neverminded for the now. "I'll send word to her... let her know I'll be bringing company. I'll call you and let you know when, aye? Sound good?"

     "Scotland, at this time of year?" Sandrine reminds, not liking that idea. Not that she expect to go, mind you, but cold is wicked cold. "Where is this person?" she wonders. "Edinburgh?"

     Fiona rises as well, setting the teacup down daintily and shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. "You know how to reach me. Though yes," she adds, with a grateful nod to Sandrine, "Do let me know if I'm going to have to wear flannels underneath a fur coat or the like." She somehow is beginning to suspect that anyone Davydd knows who can help is going to be - not unlike Huw and Hwyll - hard to reach, at best. Edinburgh? Too easy...

     His nose wrinkles, freckles shifting. Oh yeah, it's fucking winter. "Ah... well... we may have to wait for the spring thaw, aye..." a look moving between you. And lastly to Sandrine, "Ah no... north of Edinburgh," he chuckles. "At the top of the world, almost...seems like it anyway. But... you could come, wear the new fur coat I got you..." his voice begins to... warmly rumble. Is it getting a little warm in here?
     Oh. Right. We have a guest.
     Davydd pivots toward Fiona, hands shoving into robe's pockets. "How about I call you and give you the skinny then... then we'll... schedule it. We'll have to make a trip of it."

     She looks skeptical, but Sandrine doesn't vocalize it. She simply stands like everyone else, waiting upon the pending valedictions. "I am sure you both can handle it," she smiles, turning to see Fiona for a last moment.

     Turning, Fiona picks up her helmet with another nod, back to her old, punky looks. Well, at least the clothing goes with her hair - stylistically even though not in the slightest on any colour chart known to mankind's visual spectrum. "You let me know. I'm going to go try and catch some more sleep... after I check my bathtub." She pivots, with a slight, awkward nod of her head. "Thanks."

     "You're quite welcome," Davydd murmurs, and as Fiona turns to go, he holds out a hand for Sandrine. Hand, waist, whatever. "And I won't even charge you the price of a favor for it. It's on the house." And maybe you think he's kidding. But isn't the concept of 'geas' inseparable from fairy lore?
     "Nos..." Davydd calls out. Night. "And watch out for the snakes..." And Davydd laughs at that. Loud and rich. Raucous and delighted. Wide-eyed and mercurial.

     Sandrine gives a wave, keeping her voice to herself. She shakes her head at the idea of snakes, and once Davydd touches her, she turns about to see to the mundanity...of cleaning off the breakfast table.

     That only gets a slight shake of her head, neither real denial nor real acceptance. Fiona slips out, jamming the helmet over her hair - at least it fits better, without the ears to get in the way. "G'night," she mumbles, hurrying out into what's left of the day.

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 10:23 PM