Only the finest liquor in all the land will do. Only the best stores, truly, in all the world would be appropriate. Mak' my dinner sweet-o, to quote the corbie. And so the golden liquid, blood of Scotland fills the glass, three-quarters deep, no ice. Bah! Ice. Only Frenchmen drink their Scotch with ice. Barbarians.
     He stands in the sitting room beyond the green bedroom, close at hand should his hand be needed, but he's happy being in the background. Happy to be washing his hands of it all. Dressed in dark clothes -- not the usual for him, so much black -- he seems all the more fiery and coppery, green eyes all the brighter, or maybe that's just the golden aura that has surrounded him, slowly withdrawing as it is like the last fingers of the sun drawing against the skin of the world in dusky dress.
     Davydd saw the valet go in. He hears William's voice. The soft murmur of the insane woman. Your voice. It will all be handled, he is confident. And you are expected.
     Glass is held, scotch regarded, its honeyed tones, its dash of fire like a fire opal. That is when you know you have Something Spectacular. Davydd is half-turning already, glass tilted up now for a drink. And there are blue marks, swirls of cobalt at his wrists, revealed as he does so.

     Ian emerges from the room, expression the same as he went inside. His hand pulls the door too, leaving everyone secreted inside. "She is resting," Ian says, setting his celphone near a large seat's side table. He shrugs then sighs as he moves around the plush chair and plops down into it. "That is as good as we need for now."
     He spies your drink and smiles. "We appreciate everything, Davydd," name said almost formally, "...thank you. I'm not sure what we might offer in exchange for the difficulties you've had the last nights...save an apology for being somewhat incommunicado."

     "Think nothing of it, brawd," comes the soft rumble, having called you brother several winters ago, you shall likely be known by nothing else. Should he speak your name specific again, you'll really know something's up. Same as when William hears French out of the Welshman's mouth. There's a sip of the Scotch and it's lifted to you. A quiet appreciation.
     "As much as I groused at William, it was no real trouble. Not to say I'm not relieved to be relieved of it," there is a quirk at the corner of his mouth. But it's gone as eyes turn to the door. Davydd looks to you squarely. "She's lost to herself and the world. I didn't think it right that she should be turned over to God Knows Whom. You know how it can be." God knows to whom she could have been surrendered, unknown to most in this city he suspects. A young American. Or maybe even abandoned altogether.
     And Davydd can't abide that. His human heart is very much intact. As blustery as he is, he is compassionate.
     Davydd looks to you, a glance to the door again -- as if William himself could feel it, and maybe he can. He takes another sip. "Though, I may relieve Kensington of a bottle or two for the long drive," dark green eyes widen and he cuts a grin.

     "Whatever you like," Ian says politely, though slightly preoccupied. He smiles and looks across to the bar, mostly staring into space. He crosses his legs and looks back to you, hands crossing at his lap. "Are you leaving the city? You mentioned a long drive?"

     There is a sound in his throat, a nod of his coppery head. "We've been too long in The City. With the ...young lady surrendered to your care, I will be returning to Powys." The Welsh Marches, overlooking the border between East and West, Britain and Wales. "There, Sandrine and I will wait out the spring and stay right on through the rest of the year." He finishes the scotch but as of yet makes no move to pour another.
     "I left the City a while back, all that prince business," a snort for that, "... but we came for business one weekend and that weekend turned into half of winter. Not sure how the hell that happened. But then," fiery brows lift in an arch as his gaze drifts from you to around the room, the ceiling, his thoughts, "...London's 'mud' is renowned for being the stickiest outside of Agincourt's. She doesn't like to give up her dead," a slight smirk for that.

     Ian hmms softly, nodding simultaneously. "The city can do that," he agrees, "...best to avoid it. Well, at least you will get peace in Wales," Ian offers. "The city's easy to tire of," he agrees. "I cannot stay here for long myself. Two nights at best."
     At that point, Ian goes quiet. He should have a drink, but there are things to do and people to call. "I trust Sandrine is doing well?" It is not as if he knows her, save by a name and an association. Never seen her, in truth.

     There is much on the air. Eyes drift to the door way. It has gotten quiet. A heavy quiet, like the kind before a thunderstorm. Sensitive, energy pricks against the skin, at the back of the neck. "Aye," Davydd says after a minute or two of silence, "...she is. Anxious to get out of London. It's a wonder anyone lives here." It's a foregone conclusion that no one who lives here is sane. Davydd tips his head back, hands steepling at his mouth for a moment.
     "If there is anything more I can do to help, let me know. William has my phone number." A pause. "If you need me to stay through the night, I can do that. She has eaten, though as I was the only real available potable, I'm not sure how well she'll handle it. Just as well she's getting something fresh and mortal. She has been... relatively easy to contain, but she has had bouts of severe dementia. She will require sustained attention... for I do not know how long. The psychic blast, or whatever the fuck that was, woke the whole city. She was a .. cosmic brown out. It's best that you know. In case." In case it happens again.
     Or in case she totally flips and tries to claw your face off. You know, just looking out for my relo... as Edward would say.
      "I suppose I should leave you to it. You have a lot to do before sunrise, I warrant."

     "I do," Ian says lowly, clearly taken with his own thoughts. Too much to do, too little time. His gaze lifts again and he manages a smile. "You have done so much, Davydd, thank you. When Victoria is better, I am sure she will thank you too. I do not wish to ask more of you," about staying the night. "I am sure that Sandrine misses you and that you both could use some time to get back to normal." That brings a smirk. Whatever that means.
     "I think William and I shall trade off. She is more used to his company, so I will see to making arrangements and doing investigation. She was alone when you found her, yes?" he wonders, now that asking questions come to mind.

     A nod. "She was. Though, Sebastian and I ran into one another in the hallway, like a face-off in High Noon," he's a big fan of American Westerns. "I started to whistle 'The Good, The Bad & The Ugly', but I figured it'd be lost on DeRancey." A smirk at that.
     There's no comment to 'normal' but a glimmer in the eye. Sandrine hasn't known Normal since she met me...
     "I just happened to be passing by, on my usual stroll with Rhyddid and Bwci," the corgie terrors of the West Country and all points Eastward. "The air crackled, big popping explosion between my ears, and not the usual sort that just comes from thinking," Davydd drolls, "... I went in with Sebastian..."

     Ian is quiet a moment, looking past you. "Not magic, you think?" The thought is sudden and so he speaks it. "Not from a distance?" Tremere, you know. Old Sabbat. "Victoria...is a known entity in some quarters." She might have residual enemies. "But," Ian sighs, hands covering his face to massage, "...that also suggests that someone might have also targetted Darius," he breathes, mostly to himself. He is tired.
      "Would a break cause such psychic trauma? Or, is there a third party?" That comes more audibly from Ian. "Conspiracy theories..." he whispers, knowing his own habits.

     The Cymri's mouth purses in thought. Magic. "I believe it came from her... her trauma. The breakdown upon the sudden end of the Bond. What it must feel like with the Line suddenly goes... slack." Not that he's ever been bonded or ever been in love to that depth. He has only the beginning kernels of understanding. It is otherwise inconceivable.
     Davydd's fiery eyebrows knit together. "It was more psychic wave, like a sonic boom, than it was a magic explosion per se. It centered from Claridge's, and seemed to radiate outwards. As for Darius," eyebrows open outward, "..the wolf who howls no more. I have next to no information on him. I know she's been looking for him for some time. Though, one wonders if she were simply unable to find him... or if he could not answer her summons. That someone may be involved on his end, I don't doubt that. But... not her event. Ah, hmm..." Davydd pauses, starts to speak, pauses again.
     "It's a ...sensitive subject, and I hope you know that I mean no offense by asking it. However... I ... understand from Edward that she... de-faced her own sire, with her bare hands. I do not know her sire or whatever retribution may have been ... desired? By his or her allies... perhaps her lover was revenge. I do not know. It is an old story, however, oft repeated. And... Edward's description was rather..." Davydd cocks up an eyebrow, "...vivid. It left an impression."

     Ian only nods, still preoccupied with his own thoughts. "Well, there may be others." Apparently, you know this story. "But, no need to start there. I'll start with her own trail of investigation and see where it leads, before going...hunting...for others."

     "You will let me know if you need any extra..." Dark eyes glimmer. "...punch? Though... you have all the power and muscle anyone needs," Davydd nods to you. You and William -- you are the last two who should need help eradicating anyone. "That said, I am a man who likes to see wrong righted. So...let it be known. If you need help, just call, brawd."
     Brother. And that is what you are. It is in the word, in the tone and in the look. You who are yet older and yet younger than he. But you have much between you, including and Older Knowing, a more... pagan approach to problemsolving. Holistic.
     Davydd starts to speak. He pauses. There is an air of hesitation. His eyes even leave you to find something interesting about the ceiling. "I am versed," how Welsh of him, "... in...some magics. If you need something... researched or... if you need information of a magical nature I may be able to provide you with answers. Without the inconvenience, hassle and drama of asking the Witches..." Tremere. Bah.

     Oh, well. Ian's gaze returns to you and he nods. "Well, thank you," he says softly. "Few can say they have such ability. Good for you," he congratulates. "If we end up on such a path, I will let you know. But of course, I would let you know what is transpiring regardless. I do not want," Ian lifts a hand, "...you too...involved?" The question is mostly about his word choice. "I would not want this to be a problem for you or for Ms Jorgenson. So..." his hand wavers. They will try to keep this in their camp. "If a third party is involved, it is better it not seek your path."

     A wry smile creaks across his expression. Congratulations? "I do not know what good it does for me, but... it is what it is. As for involvement? Yes, well... there is that. But... for you and William..." The door is open. There is no limit. Not even blood. But, you already know this.
     His hands come together and rub, a signal to an end of the matter. "I will be in Wales, regardless. Soaking up rain, gathering moss and singing in harmony. And tell Plantagenet," comes the rumble of the old dragon, "...that I forgive him for hanging up on me. He will, of course, go through a period of righteous indignation, but then, when he mollifies, be sure to tell him I love him."
     Davydd turns with a smile. Ah, the argument continues. Plantagenet and Llewelyn. Straight on through to the end of time. Ain't life grand?

      "I will tell him," Ian smiles, rising from his chair. "Whatever happens, however, do try and have a restful spring, hmm? It sounds as if you will," he goes on, moving over to the bar. A half-bend. "There is nothing good here," Ian says quickly, coming upright as if he is not that surprised. Now in truth, most people would accept anything back there.
     "We'll need to find you something decent," Ian says, hand on the bar's edge.

     "I'm a man of simple tastes," Llewelyn waxes long, a hand going to his stomach. "Only the best will do." Green eyes, green as the mountains of Cymru (or Scotland) twinkle in a wink. "I won't keep you on search tonight. Just...ship me a little something from down home," Scotch, "... to Powis Castle," nice estate that. "...I'll be sure to get it. And... I will have a restful spring if my woman allows it of me. But not too restful, ere I sprout mold. You have to keep moving in the Welsh winter. The forests are a bit...opportunistic." As are the Welsh, in truth.
      A hand rakes through coppery wavy hair and he sighs. "You and Wills take care, aye? Good luck." You're going to need it, boyo.

     From the room, there is the stirring of William's voice again. Softly. Not calling out for you. Just... speaking. Softly speaking.
     For half an hour or so, the full duration of this chat, there had been no noise from that room. Not after the first gasp and sigh of a young man becoming dinner. You could feel the mortal pang of pleasure. You could smell the tinge of copper on the air. Blood.
     But the scent of it has faded now. So, too, the young man's recollection. You can feel the ministrations of Plantagenet from the other room. Domination done. Power pulled from deep within him...
     And when it surfaced, so too a buried truth...

     "No, thank you," Ian smiles, moving back to your side. He'll at least escort you to the outer doors of this sequence of apartments. "And by the time you reach Powis, there should be something to at least help make the last of winter tolerable." If he's good, it'll beat you. Even if you leave for Powis now...
     "Give our best to Ms Jorgenson, yes? I mean," Ian rolls his eyes, "Sandrine. And we'll be alright. It is Victoria we worry for. But thanks to you and Sandrine, she at least ended up in the right places." With you both and then us.
     "If you can," Ian stops and asks, "...will you call and let us know when you arrive?"

     Davydd turns about at the door, wearing that wayward smile, his own hallmark. When the man's cleaned up and civilized, he can be quite spiffy. He damn near glows, in fact. Sandrine has that effect on him, it seems. Or talk of her, even. "Aye, I will ... I'll give a call and I will definitely give Sandrinaar," habit that, "...your regards. I expect to be in Scotland some time in the spring. Maybe we can pop by and give regards in person again." We Celtic types need to stick together.
     His hand comes out to give yours a parting shake. You're not one for hugs, he seems to recall. "You're welcome." It seems to say it all.

     Ian's handshake is gentle, if charged.
     How marvelous he is, with those grey eyes and flashing blonde-white hair. He is so fair, dressed in his darker turtleneck. It is so easy to see why William loves him...
     "Spring then..." Ian says, head tilting as he looks at you. He's removing his hand now, taking it back to shove into a pocket.
     "Be well, Davydd," he finishes. Did he say something an instant ago?

     You get a second look. Not even Davydd is immune. But then he's gone. That stride unmistakable: the march of Mars. Ruddy and full of energy. A firebrand. Just like someone else you know and love...
     When he departs, the sunlight seems to go with him. Energy wanes in the immediate area. Except for near the door to the 'green' bedchamber. There, it is thick and charged...

Posted by rowan at July 02, 2003 03:30 PM