Ducking out of the rain... Christ... soaked to the fucking bones. I have to pick tonight of all nights to comb the streets for artists because I'm feeling a little peckish. Meanwhile, a gorgeous woman -- and I mean gorgeous, Ann-Margret circa 1965 gorgeous, with a fashion flare like Grace Kelley -- is making dinner for me in high-heels and taffetta and I'm out here.
     You're bleeding insane, Davydd ap Owain of Gwynedd, self-proclaimed Llywelyn...
     Davydd stands under the awning of a closed shop, taking shelter for the moment as the downpour sends rain down in sheets. It's damn near ten o'clock, which means this little street, off the main areas of Covent Garden -- his new stomping grounds -- is near pitch. He takes out a cigarette, lights it with a union jack zippo and breathes fire and smoke. As any dragon worth his salt should.
     Looking a mite dapper these days too, shaved and all. But even so, it's not hard to imagine the Davydd of Alhambra, streaked with sand and blood and sweat and grinning for it all. Leather overcoat protects a layer of wool beneath it, and beneath that a crimson turtleneck jumper and a pair of grey wool slacks. Very trendy. The shoes are serviceable, casual Docs -- but not the steel-toed crushers that Edward wears. Curly red hair's been shorn short, till there's only a slight wave to be seen.
     Davydd leans forward, peering up and out. Letting up yet? Fuck no.
     So he smokes.

     If there's one thing to be liked about dark rainy nights, it would be the fact that the rain sends everyone inside. As such the some thing's get to run free in the cold, black rain. Things that should not be. Things that simple do not have as many great roof tops to cross the city astrides as he would in North Umberland. Something, heavy, hits the awning above you forcing the water welled up there to go cascading over the sides. You can tell by the imprint it's manshapped, but it moves with no sound save the soft rustle of what very few ears are trained to hear these days.
     It's the rustle of chainmail, Norman style in fact, something you'd no doubt recognize, having been known for sharp senses even before you went and died. Standing at the edge of the awning as the water billows around him and soaks his heavy cloak is a tall figure that seems to have stepped right out of European folk lore, or an American pulp serial. A deep but almost gutteral voice speaks, "You are aware I hope..." And if you had any doubts who this might be, they are all gone, Henry Percy's voice is more distinctive than even his monstrous features. "That there is a woman that looks like Ann Margret Circa 1965 back at your place. What in the bloody hell are you doing out here?"

     As water cascaded downward and the awning bowed beneath the weight, the Cymri took a side-step back, as if he was really worried about his jacket or his shoes. No, indeed, he was saving the cigarette. The rustle, the kind of chime he hasn't heard in a while -- I mean, who other than William keeps armor around the house? -- catches his ears and he peers up, just as you're peering down. Fiery eyebrows cock up and there's a grin for it. "Henry," he says, Welsh accent clipping upward, inflecting. He'd rather boom it, but for all that it was mostly quiet. "Sore sight for eyes, you are. What the hell are you doing in soggy old Londinium, and ...aye," he laughs, "I am a little mad for it all, being out here, God knows why. I think I like to suffer. Byoot, ain't she," he rumbles lowly, and not just a little darkly. "I've gone and gotten a Toreador woman, god help me." Sandrine Jorgenson. An archon, actually, as you would know. "She doesn't like me to smoke in the house, so..." Great shoulders roll and he puffs on the forbidden burning stick. "Somehow I ended up strolling, you know how it goes. How the hell are ya, mate? It's been a couple," of years, "I think, aye? I've mostly moved back to Powys, you know," central Wales, his old lands, "...you should stop by."

     Even though it's mostly hidden beneath the cloak you can just see to forming of a crooked, almost feral smile on Hank's lips. "Ahhh the fair Toreador. A night's worth of a bliss and then an enterity of anguish." Joking notwithstanding however, Hank continues, "Well I came to see how you were doing, Davydd." He reaches out and clasps your shoulders firmly, the way warriors once greeted each other years ago.
     "You see, while it is my home and always will be, Northumberland is scantly in need of its Demon Knight to scour the country-side, visiting vengeance on the unholy and profane who prey on the weak thinking themselves monsters..." All these years and he still walks the road of Heavens despite being perhaps on of hte most gloriously strayed Christains ever. "I thought I would perhaps come and see how Davydd was doing. He who among the twelve is almost as closely followed by trouble as William."

     Your shoulders are grasped readily, the laughter is rolling, earthy and trailed by an exhalation of smoke. He would have made a damn fine nosferat, had the Ventrue not gotten to him first. Course, the Ventrue arrived to the party late as well...
     "I'd correct you, but you're dead on about the anguish. I try to get my bliss in early," fiery brows waggle, "...then cede the rest of the evening to her." Davydd chuckles, cigarette balanced in his mouth as his hands give your shoulders a shake before he leaves off. There's a snort for trouble. "Aye well... William's been keeping mostly quiet, 'cept for that bit in France," William surrendering his hold on Poitiers and Tours, "... I heard the dagos in our company," meaning the Italianate members of the Twelve, namely Francesco the Nosferat, Girault the Toreador and Lorenzo the Ventrue, "...were squawking something mad." He laughs. "Wish I had been a fly on that wall. Well, it's good to see you, and I'm flattered you came down, Good Sir. Me? I've been quiet," yeah right, he puffs on his cigarette, "... left off notions of going out for the princeship of this...fair city, and packed up for Cymru. Got me a little bit of nice Toreador to go with it. Like having strawberry cake with cream all year round, that one," he remarks with a sidelong smile.
     "And how are things in Northumberland then? Quiet? Fun having Dunross and Plantagenet back in the north country?" And he laughs. They're your problem now, you know...

     "To be quiet blunt, I haven't been to see them yet. Oh I always mean to but I never get around ot it." He sighs at the mention of Poitiers and Tours. Though he could never prove it, Hank has always claimed some distant relation to the Martel on his mother's side. "William may have formed the twelve but his life often moved in very different circles, his Destiny is ultimately somewhere else I imagine." Hank shrugs and turns to stand beside Davydd. Leanding back against the closed shop as he finishes his cigarette.
     "As for Northumberland.. as I said quite.. it seems scant need of a Demon Knight these days..." He shakes his head, "And seeing Liam a few years ago.. that has gotten me thinking. He is every thing I used to be as a human, everything I didn't want to become again. Sitting in his lone manor, with everything his heart ever desired, and yet completely miserable with no idea as to why." Hanks shoulders shrug, "I have thought perhaps it is time for me to not just leave Northumberland on some errant quest and returning, but rather that it is time to explore the world a little."

     Davydd looks up, not as you speak of William, but as you speak of Liam, William's vampiric grandsire. No love lost there, he knows. "He leads a sad life, the Old Earl. And an empty existence, even with the manor house and endless crowds of boys." Davydd exhales a billowing cloud of smoke and sends the cigarette flying outward to the street, arching like a comet. The trajectory of the cigarette is visible to you both a few moments after the fire was extinguished by the flood of air and water. "An example to us all... of what not to do, if one can help it. And not just the boys," he rumbles, having no need to sleep with the male of the species. "I'd almost forgotten you did that," Davydd says quietly. "And good on you for getting out and about. The world's meant to be lived in, Harry," he says, preferring Harry to both Hank and Henry. "Like an old shoe, worn till it falls off your feet."
     He takes out another cigarette, fishing one from the pack, offering the pack toward you. Say, if you light up, how many orifices will smoke escape from? "Got any particular ideas on where you're headed? The little lady's asking to go back to Cymru. I'm thinking ... maybe I'll go to Spain again for a while. Never could get the sand out of my shorts, you know," he went to Spain before the Twelve were formed. And there is some argument as to who actually formed them. Truth be told, it was Davydd. But it was William who commanded them. Fine with him, really. William's better at it. But William hasn't been the glue that's held it all together. We all did that.
     He is quiet for a moment and then Davydd nods, looking to you. "William's always been on another trajectory," the earthy voice murmurs. "...up and over like a comet. I called him Jupiter when I first saw him. He was twenty or so and I was already an old man past thirty-one. I think we're going to look at it and understand it sometime, Hank," he drops into the familiar. "And I think William himself's going to be a bit surprised. Just a feeling I have. He's a good lad, though, he loves you dearly. You came over with his great-grand-pappy, and though he hates to admit it, I think he misses his family now and again. Troublesome bunch that they were."

     "Ahh yes, the great grand pappy that he shares a name with." Hank says with a grin. He only harumph's slightly at being called Harry this time. Apparantly he's starting to get used to it. "Yes, They are very much alike. And you just can't dissuade either of them once they get an idea into their heads." After all there were more than just a few that begged the question, Sure you could conquer britain, but why of William of Normandy. Of course, Hank was not among those. He was a young knight, little more than a mercenary really, and his the fifth of some seven sons. He wasn't looking to inherit any land of his own. When the fires settled, Northumberland was his prize and one he cherished quite much. "I think perhaps I will go to America. I have heard that my Clan there has forged a kingdom beneath the cities that dot the landscape, It has its own rules even its own fledgeling economy they claim. It would be quite the thing to see. And I am sure the ladies of America could use a real man over the limp wristed eurotrash could have beens they are saddled with now."
     In something of an oddity for his clan, Percy has never shrunk in shame from his appearance, he felt he was made into a monster for good reason. It was both his curse and his chance to atone for the sins he commited as a man. He also thinks his monsterous appearance makes him look 'virile' and that women are more attracted to him than they pretend to be. Oh well to each their pyschoses.

     Riot! Davydd's laughter booms at the mention of Eurotrash, thinking -- of course -- of William, not that Plantagenet's limp-wristed, mind you. Sleep with men though he does. Bloody hell, that was funny. Davydd wipes his eyes and looks to you, lighting up another. "America... you know, never been there. Fancied it, once upon a time. I wanted to be a cowboy." Davydd flashes a grin. "Rope some cattle, grab some breasts, play some cards. But," he exhales smokes, "... I never could fancy spending so much time on a boat. Makes me a mite queasy. Though, the underground kingdoms sounds rather spiffy, actually," he means it too, Davydd looks to you, "... we'll miss you, of course. You'll have to send us a few pictures. Maybe a few of your women," Davydd chortles. "I hear they like real men in America. Long as you have a bit of green anyway. And you've got green all over, Perce," he clips, Welsh accent flying on the lifted voice. Meaning the moss that grows on you, of course. "You're a cinch, boyo..."
Davydd takes another puff or more, flicking ash onto the street, adding to the foggy atmosphere. "I'm all but out of The Game myself," meaning anything to do with the Camarilla. No real place for the fae-blessed childe of Mithras, in truth. Though the pagan vampires, those left from his sire's ravaging, like him well enough. "Suits me fine enough. I've a good woman now," having off-loaded Rosamund last year or more, "... bit quiet. You know those Norse women," a snort and roll of his eyes. "Lord, what have I done to m'self. I'm in love with a Viking's daughter, god help me. But," he exhales, "... I'm a free man, to go as I wish, no commitments but to her, really. I think going back to the south of Spain, setting up in a villa and playing the guitar at sunset sounds like a fair life, wot?"
     Davydd looks to you, giving your arm a healthy pat. "The Twelve of us should converge before the next Conclave you know... when have we all shared the same roof, when was the last time we were together? What... before World War I, wasn't it?"

     "Oh do not miss me too much." he shakes his head, "I'll end up back in Northumberland, I always do.. I have to make sure affairs will be well taken care-off before I leave as well, So I'll be on the mystic isles for a time yet." Even though he holds know official position as far as Northumberland's kindred are concerned, even the Camarilla's prince understands that Northumberland is Percy's. Everyone else is just renting.
     "At least that.. and even in the Great War I think one or two might have been absent. I am sure the conclave would be overjoyed at the news that we're getting the band back together." There's no small amount of Sarcasm in Hank's voice. Knowning full well how the 'secret council' of the Camarilla views them. Of course, Hank has always been on Davydd's side in this matter, The Camarilla is a game that bored Kindred play at.

     And Girault's perhaps the most bored of them all. He, who is on the council of councils. The inner circle and all that rot. Not that any know of it. Comes off like an 8th Genner, maybe 7th. Few know he's 5th. Not even William who, for some reason, was one of Girault's favorites. Must be the art thing. "Well," Davydd chuckles, "I'll see what I can do to add to the furor, then. I'll talk to Gwilym," preferring the Welsh 'William' to the English, even as William himself prefers the French 'Guillaume' to the English 'William'. "And Edward. Oh! Say... did you hear about Meurelle? He's gone off and sired, you know. Nice lad, that. Never expected Edward to go for a lad, but... he's a good lad. Smart as a whip, French -- though he manages to be likeable," oh wait, you're French too, I keep forgetting. "Anyway," Davydd grins, "... you should get a peek and an earful before you head off to the Colonies..."
     He nods to hear you say you'll be returning. That's good to know. And he knows that he could never stay out of England forever. He'd miss it. He'd miss Wales.

     A brow raises, "Edward? You're shittin' me?" You know ever since Michael Beihn was allowed to make movies, 'shit' became one of Hank's favorite verbs. I guess we all have our guilty little pressures. Bad testoserone movies must be Hank's. "Well then I'll have to pay the old bastard a visit and look in on his knew progeny." In truth the grin has never really left, Hank's shrouded features, but it slowly widens just a bit "Smart as a whip eh? Can he do simple math when offered sugar cubes?"
     Okay, so that was a bit crude, but Hank takes the liberity of laughing at his own joke. Realizing that no one else will. "Anyway, it's wet and fucking cold out here." Not just cold mind you, fucking cold. It's worse trust me. "Let's make sure you get whatever the hell it is you need out here and we get you back to you're firey-haired lass in the high-heels... She doesn't have a sister does she?"

     "Not unless she's in the ground," Davydd chortles. "Nah, all she had was brothers, far as she's told me. But you know... we don't talk much," brows waggle, and though the joke's funny, it's funnily true -- sex or no sex. "She might. I'll ask..." Davydd looks out into the rain, letting up a bit at least, launches the cigarette from his fingertips to die a miserable, cold death and then shoves his hands in his coat pockets. "Bah, let's just head over to the flat. I'll introduce you. You can have dinner with us. The boys," meaning the corgies, "...would love to see their uncle Hank. You remind them of badger hunting and times spent in mud and wild woods." And that's a good thing to be reminded of, frankly.
     Davydd motions you to follow him and turns toward Covent Garden. Course, he figures you'll go invisible again. That's alright. He talks to thin air and brick walls anyway. He's a gabby sort.

Posted by rowan at June 16, 2003 02:23 PM