It's quite the menagerie. Two vampires, one fairy witch and two corgies. Sounds like the opening of some pub joke, am I right? These two vampires and a fairy witch walk into a bar. So, needless to say the journey from London to Wales to Scotland has been a bit of an adventure. But at least Sandrine had the forethought to pack sandwiches.
     But who would know that Davydd was a vampire by the way he shovels down food. Full half of the sandwiches she made were specifically for feeding him, with the two of you splitting the rest. He actually growled at the dogs and once at Fiona when pilfering paws and fingers thought he wouldn't miss one of the butter and cucumber and mayonaisse sandwiches.
     But now he's stuffed and he's smoking, the window rolled down in his car, the CD player playing something Celtic, he singing along -- sounds great, especially when his voice is all earthy-like -- the Land Rover piling over the hills and into the highlands, not a light or a town in sight, it's pitch black and he's without a care in the world. The dogs are in the very back woofing and occasionally howling along with their Master. It's a family outing, Llywelyn-style. All around you is the heath and the wild of Scotland. Moors as far as the eye can see, and one narrow little road that the Rover totally claims.
     The song? Well, at the moment and to be specific, it's a little ditty called Black Jack Davy, one of about a hundred different varieties, and Davydd knows them all. Of course, he should...

     It's a wonder that Davydd knows where to go at all. Once on the other side of Glasgow, the A-road turned into a B-road, turned into a single stretch that wends through the dark glens and crosses small moors. Somewhere between the vales was the direction given, and indeed, that's about all it is. Somewhere in the great open spaces, around groves of abandoned forests, between the marshy waters, of the lower Highlands can the hosts be found.
     It's pitch black, save the brilliant stars, a few dots of homelights, and the headlights of the Range Rover. Apparently Davy's been here before, for ahead, across a reflective shimmer (a small loch?) are a set of square lights. The glow of windows. A house whose form is barely distinctive in the fall of night.

     She's a lot quieter in some ways, these days, as Fiona instead of Drancy, and her fashion sense has gone from thrift store reject to Saville Row all the way. Currently, she's dressed in an impeccable set of heather tweed trousers with matching jacket, and a crisp white linen blouse with a high, slightly frilly collar, a pair of sturdy country boots in dark red-brown leather on her feet. It's a bit of a shocking contrast to the fuchsia of her hair, even rolled up and pinned into place with the gold and cloisonne butterfly pins as the screaming tresses are. A matching brooch sits on her blouse, and a dainty watch, on her wrist.
     She's spent most of the drive looking out the window, or occasionally remarking or replying to comment, but for the most part, Fiona's quiet, introspective, allowing the corgies to romp over her with a now-and-again poke and tickle to their stomachs. Apparently today, she's burying nerves in silence - but as least it's not a glowering silence, is it? Finally, turning into the drive, she asks, "So, are we there yet? - Sorry, it had to be said."

     She did pack well. Sandwiches of all types, fresh fruit, along with salads, meats and cheeses, and baked goods. Variety is necessary, you know. The suitcases neatly fit on the hood, which is a good thing as the food needs to remain in the Rover well within Davydd's reach.
     Not that she ate much, mind you.
     The generous packing is habit, at this point. One never knows what you might run into, or what detours one has to make.
     Sandrine should have been a Girl Guide Leader.
     "I think the dogs need out, Davy," Sandrine adds. She doesn't know whether or not they're close, and as the question's asked, she looks over at Davydd for a response. Her hand gently pets Frikka, curled up in her lap.

     Moving closer, it is indeed a house, rather rustic. A simple rectangle, it has plenty of clearing before it tapers off into the small loch that sits between you. There is a massive woodpile to the left of the house, and it seems all of the lights are on. They're expecting guests. Behind the house, the land rises to woods and the hills that define this valley.

     "Ah, you're savin' all your piddlin' for Donal's daisies, aren't ya lads," comes the rumble of the dragon's voice, speaking lovingly to the dogs in the back. "Windows up ahead... your bladders may soon find release, and your bum may get its own needed break," green eyes flash in the rearview mirror to see Fiona in the back seat. Davydd looks to Sandrine. He flashes a smile, corners of his eyes crinkling. There's likely a wink. How cute are they? Are you ready to put your finger down your throat yet?
      The Rover's geared downward, four wheel drive engaged as Davydd rolls over the moors -- the road becoming a path becoming merely the longing to become a driveway -- and slowly he rolls it to a stop. "Another successful invasion of Scotland, what ho lads," he croons to the corgies as if they were his very own sons. Rover in 'park' he turns the ignition off and hops out to open the doors of the women folk.
     He's so gallant...

     Sandrine sits, picking up Frikka. "We are here," she informs the cat, presuming the stop is the final destination. "Are you alright?" she twists, asking Fiona suddenly. Sandrine doesn't rush to open her door -- that's Davydd's job -- and puts Frikka into her large skirt pocket.

     The house is indeed rather rustic, built from hand-hewn materials. There's nothing finished or machined about it at all, and the house had held up to exposure and time. Each window has a flowerbox in the front, carved with with intricate abstract patterns. There are multiple chimneys, suggesting the house knows nothing of central heating or air, and at the right end, two chimney sit side-by-side, where the kitchens and stoves must be.
     A simple door is the only visible opening, save the windows. As the Rover comes to a halt, light streams from the door's quick opening, illuminating a large male figure from behind.
Fiona accepts the door opening as though it was her due. Drancy would've tried to kick him in the nuts.She slides out of the vehicle with a murmur of thanks, then straightens up and steps hastily out of the way, lest she be run over by a wallop of corgies.

     "Pretty," Fiona offers, then : "Reminds me of the farmhouse I squatted in, when I was in France." Must've been some time ago, really - or was it? Who knows. She moves to trail behind Davydd and Sandrine, unwilling to step ahead.

     It is his job and he was around the other side of the car quick enough -- though careful not to be too quick, first opening for Sandrine and then for Fiona. And the corgies. Out drop the bundles of Welsh pride and noses to the Scottish earth they search out their first squatting of the night...
     ...speaking of squatting...
     And as soon as the women are seen to, you'll notice that Davydd puts out a hand to Sandrine, a further offerance of something damn near chivalric, Davydd's turning toward the light. "Donal! Brawd! I have brought women from the south and there's ale in the trunk. An early Yule!" As if.

     The man who appears is not terribly tall, though he is broad. Dressed in denim pants and a grey flannel shirt, he steps from the door and dances quickly towards the Rover. His hair is dark brown and plentiful, and gives way to a beard that wraps around his face.
     "Daffid," it comes out, "...you bring the best of the season!" He laughs, subdued for a man who seems the stereotype of a woodsman, and gives Davydd a hug when he reaches him, despite Davydd's arm and hand extended to the woman bseide him. Donal laughs again and pulls back to see Davydd and you both.
     "Hallo, ladies fair," he smiles, "Donal Wallach, I'm call'd..."
     "And thank you, Miss," he says to Fiona. How he heard her, God only knows. "Welcome..." he smiles, motioning to the house.

     Sandrine looks over to Fiona, nodding about the house, then squinting about the squatting. She sighs softly and steps up with Davydd, standing politely as greetings are done.

     The hug is partially returned, he has two arms afterall. Swinging about, he directs attention to the two ladies. First things first, the one attached to him is: "Donal Wallach, Sandrine Jorgensen, lovely rose that she is," hint hint, "...my better better half. Sandrine, this is Donal... old friend, amazingly still invites me into his home, a man of uncommonly large and gracious heart. And Fiona here," Davydd guides Donal's attention onward, if such is possible, "... the young woman I warned... I mean told you about, but yet said next to nothing. Fiona, this is Donal... Donal, Fiona...Rhyddid and Bwca you know."
     Let the piddling begin! The corgies set off on their own business...
     "So," Davydd's hands rub together, "... did Marta make her pies?" How can the man continually eat? Where does it all go?

     "How do you do?" Fiona is nothing if not gracious as she steps up next to Davydd to greet the man. At the slip of the tongue, though, her elbow suddenly jerks outwards, in a dig aimed at Davydd's ribs - whether or not she connects, she just adds sweetly, "Oh, I do apologize, muscle spasm from being in the car for so long." She then continues to offer her hand to the man, smilingly, though she does shoot a sidelong glance to Sandrine. Got to see how the girlfriend deals with physical abuse aimed at her lover, after all.

      "Ah, a pleasure," Donal says to you both, bobbing his head. "I'd only heard of you Sandrine, and you are more beautiful than even William's florid tongue could describe. And...Miss Fiona," Donal steps over and nods, "...welcome. It is a pleasure. I know Marta's looking forward to talking with you..."
     Marta who?
      "And you should ignore Llewelyn. We all do..." Donal notes, taking Fiona's hand and shaking it gently.

     Sandrine smiles at Donal, saying, "It's lovely to meet you too...I have heard much about you. Of course, it was all very nice," she offers, just in case anyone was worried on what Davydd might have said.

     "And yes, there are steak and mushroom pies, along with lemon cake," Donal affirms, in case Davydd's getting antsy. "And I think she made other things too. She was busy today." To Fiona, Donal adds, "Marta loves to make pies. Davydd loves to eat pies. It works out."

     Davydd's eyes go wide. "What do you mean 'William's florid tongue'?" The complexion goes from ruddy excitement to volcano in about two seconds flat. "His tongue, 'florid' or no..." Someone please stop him. He's going to have a cardiac. "What...when...bah!" He throws open his hand. And rumbles: he will be speaking with William later.
     What could William possibly know?
     When could he have 'known' it?
     Davydd seethes, but his complexion begins to return to normal. "Bah, now I'm off my feed," he rolls out. "Well," an exhale, "...let's head in before the rain starts in, you're both wearing your good shoes," he points out to the ladies. And he looks to Donal. If you know something about Plantagenet that I don't you better be tellin' me.
     With a gracious bow, Davydd motions the two women to go ahead, he'll bring up the rear. Fitting, no? Since he's an ass...

     With a brief eye aimed at Davydd's seething, but she steps forward again. "The food sounds lovely," Fiona agrees, flicking a stray strand of too-colourful hair back from her cheek. "Thank you." She's still quiet - wary, alert to her surroundings and the strangeness of it. After all... she's a stranger... And a compelling argument can be made that there aren't many people stranger than Fiona.

     "Well come in and see Marta. Have a hot meal," Donal says, turning to lead the ladies within. "You like pies then," Donal asks Fiona idly as he guides to the house. "You'll want a pint to go with that," he explains.

     Sandrine rolls her eyes at Davydd, right hand on her cat pocket. She grins and steps past him, following Fiona and Donal to the house proper. "Don't forget the food, Davy," Sandrine reminds, listening in on the conversation ahead of her.

     The house is no more complicated inside than out. From a main sitting room, with fireplace, an opening right leads to a large kitchen area. Left, a couple of doors leading to hallways that cannot hold more than a room or two off each. Maybe a bath or two shared. One door leads directly to a bedroom with a rocking chair at the side. Wood tables and carved statues and animals make up the core of the decor, with hand-crafted shades and shutters attached to each window. The largest sofa is a loveseat, the rest of the seating is comprised of large chairs with blankets and sewn pillows.

     Fiona smiles briefly to Donal as she steps over the lintel. "I like food." Pies are nice, but pies are irrelevant; it is food, and food must be consumed! She tugs on her cuffs, stepping cautiously into the house and peering round in almost nervous feline fashion.
     "And," she adds over her shoulder, with grey eyes for the moment, "not to insult my wonderful hosts, or my ..." What are Sandrine and Davydd to her, anyway? Not hosts, not precisely. "Friends," she says a bit lamely, trying to keep the uncertainty from her voice, "But so as not to look the utter fool - erm, who if I may ask, is Marta?"

     Davydd will have to apologize for his outburst later. Maybe food will help! As if he needed to eat more. He turns, engages the locks on the Rover, though that's pretty fucking useless as who'd come out to steal it, Macbeth? But he locks it anyway, alarm on with a little chirping, corgies running around the acreage and women in the house. He is last to come in, but by the time he gets there, he's back to normal, pleasant as ever and smiling.
     He'll call William later...
     "Well, then..." he says, coming up behind, and he stands in the doorway and exhales. It's sort of like going home again, in a way. Like back through the ages. Quick as Mercury, green eyes go to Fiona. "I thought I told you..." He looks to Sandrine. Did I not go over this?

     "Me..." comes a voice from the open door bedroom, a woman peering out. She has been fixing herself up, considering the kitchen seems warm still and her clothing's fresh. The woman, perhaps in her late-twenties, glides into the large room proper, red-brown hair more like a mane around her face. "Sorry on that," Marta says, accent broad and thick. "I dinna expect you for another bit. Hi," she offers, hand out to Fiona. Her skirt is heavy corduroy, and her blouse is perhaps the nicest she has. A white cotton with eyelets around the collar.

      "Good even', my Highland Queen," Davydd croons out his usual greeting. Only this time he doesn't run up to her and put his face between her breasts or lifts her over his shoulder. He merely turns, closing the door behind him and giving her a wink.

     Sandrine thought you did, but shrugs. Frikka's clawing at her skirt, trying to climb her way out. But the question is quickly answered, and she smiles at Marta's presentation. "Hello," Sandrine offers, still a bit behind Fiona.

     Only 'a friend', and not much more information to go on than that - but Fiona's memory has its lapses, these days, so who can say? She accepts the hand with a brief smile, cordial but careful yet. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, then. I'm Fiona Arundel." Good drawing room manners, but not on ceremony, no.

     "Queen?" Marta blips, shaking her head. She walks on barefeet and shakes Fiona's hand vigorously. "Nae, not me, Davy. And...by the by, y' look great."
     Oh, is that her?
     "Hello," Marta says, "...nice tae meet you." Now -that- woman is more like a queen. "Come sit, you must be hungry or thirsty or something," she asks in general, then looks at Fiona in particular. "Fiona Arundel. That's a good name." Marta blinks. "Y'not related to the Catholic Arundels are you?"

     "I got it!" Donal calls, moving to the kitchen. "Yes, that's Sandrine I told you about. And Fiona that Davy said." As if he missed the last few moments. "I was surprised that Marta came in after you called, Davy," Donal shouts, not really knowing what's going on out there. "I never know when she comes..."

     "Bah," he rumbles, though it is true he looks better than he did the last time he came rolling up the highlands. Course that time, he rolled his way straight up the hill and straight into Marta's bed, but who's counting. Not like it gets talked about. At all. "Aye, Marta... Sandrine... Sandrine, this is Marta. You two should get on like a house on fire. She loves wild things, and you carry wild things in your pockets." He could mean himself or the cat at this point. Dark forest eyes give a wink again and Davydd reaches to give the cat a pat, and hidden from all the rest a rub upon the small of the back of the woman who loves him.
     Despite himself...
     Davydd rakes a hand through his hair and motions the women to go ahead of him. "I thought it'd be good for you ta meet," all the women. "But I was hopin' you'd be able to help Fiona here out with a matter of ...information, maybe a mentor..."
     That is why they have come. To help Fiona sort out who she is and to see if Marta can help. Or if not, who could. For it can't be the son of Mithras to do it. That flies in the face of everything, holy or no.

     Catholic Arundels and a few other kinds - like most of the older noble families which have actually lasted, Fiona's family survived by taking multiple sides and hoping to be on the winning side. "Some branches of the family are, though my father is an Anglican," she replies cordially. He would no doubt be surprised to hear himself described as a Catholic - particularly considering who /he/ married.
     She steps forward to lean down and let the cat sniff her fingers, then straightens up again. "Is there somewhere I ought to be, out of the way, perhaps?"

     Marta nods. "Aye," she says regarding the Arundels, while offering seats at the table. Marta looks at Davydd and Sandrine, thinking a moment about his comments. "Well, considering Davydd thinks that I might be able t' help you with something, maybe you should stay out here with us," she laughs.
     "Are y' always trying to run off?" Marta asks, taking a seat of her own at the 'dining' table. "Are you shy?" she wonders, then looks at Davydd, then to the subject in question. "If so, it's not a problem."

     In the kitchen, Donal's moving about. Metal on metal, doors opening and closing. He tries to keep some modicum of quiet, as people are conversing. But as he's preparing food, it's a little difficult. "Davy!" he yells, "What are y' drinkin'?"

     A hand to the small of Sandrine's back, Davydd guides her toward the table and one of the several chairs. He slips a finger into the pocket wherein resides a puss of the female persuasion. Little Frik. Frikka la Blanche! Frikka, cath gwyn!
     He shares a look with Marta. Shy's not really the word, but he let's Fiona handle and answer for herself. He's to find a chair for his ass and plop himself down. "What's in season, brawd? Spring mead ready? If so, I'll have sommat..."
     Outside, one may hear the dogs howling...

     Sandrine does take the seat, giving Davydd a smile for his gentility. Only when she sits does Sandrine fish out the clawing Frikka, setting her on the floor for a look around.

     "Shy?" That seems to amuse Fiona. "No, not shy, just a bit off balance." She follows the others, adding, "I'm just not awfully sure what's going on, or ... what to expect, and the unexpected seems to happen around me, lately, with alarming regularity."
     Turning to Davydd, she adds, "Should I've worn my club gear... Davy?" Her lips quirk for a moment over the question, blue-grey eyes now looking to the sound of the dogs howling. "Hm. Is everything alright, out there?"

     Marta can appreciate that reply. "Well, I dunno what's going on, save that Donal asked meh t' meet you, cause Davydd wanted us to meet." She pauses, then looks at Davydd, "What's this about a mentor or information, Davy? Oh, and the dogs are fine. Jes...there's a lot out there t' keep them occupied. They may have found something."
     And you don't look much like a vampire.

     Donal finally returns with a few plates in his hand. He sets them on the table, along with a set of blue and white napkins and forks. "May be that muskrat," he mentions off-hand, as if it's been a topic previously. With that input, he heads out again to the kitchen to fetch the rest. "Oh, an' we have a spring ready, but I don't know about it, Davy," Donal finishes. "I'll bring 't," he trails off.

     "Ignore them, they're heeding the call of the wild. They think they're wolves," Davydd grins, taking a seat after Sandrine settles. He looks down to the cat and whispers something to her in Welsh. Those in the room who understand the tongue would hear: Little white cat with important things to do...
     Davydd looks from Fiona to Marta. His expression is easy, but his gaze is keen, direct. "Fiona has a magic streak a mile wide," he explains by way of simile, as ever, "... and she needs someone who can help answer the questions she has and maybe find a one who can help her. The help I can offer is limited," Davydd looks between those gathered here. "My situation is... a little unique," the weight of that look. "But I feel that magic without control will be detrimental to her and to those around her. I was hoping you might know one of the connected fae in the area. Someone you trusted."
     Fae and trust in the same sentence? It's a long-shot, he knows...
     Davydd exhales and settles in his chair, fingers lacing across his stomach. "Fiona has a few fae contacts but they're... not the sort that typically habitate this world." He glances to Fiona. "Tired of me talking about you in the third person?" You can speak for yourself.
     Davydd inclines his head toward the kitchen, "Whatever's handy, brawd. I'm not fussy..." And he isn't when it comes to potables and food. He'll drink and eat next to anything.

     Donal comes back with drinks in his hand. Pints and an unmarked bottle. "Now we have a proper visit," he says, handing out dark glasses for everyone. Whatever's inside is rather heady and room temperature. "Um," he looks at Sandrine, "...if you want something else, we have...tea." And that's about it. Maybe a coffee. The unmarked bottle is placed before Davydd.

     Marta looks up, "Thankee, Wallach," then gives her attention to Fiona. "Well, now, it makes more sense," she affirms, seeing Fiona through a different glass. "You're fae," she asks, wanting to hear it from her mouth. Brown eyes look Fiona up and down, waiting upon an answer. "With connections," she adds, dipping her chin a little.

     Davydd looks to Sandrine. Is that alright? The man dotes on her to be sure. Looking to see if the chair is comfortable enough, just about. There's nothing puppy-dog about it. It's just a kind of civility one doesn't normally see in the Oak King. He actually cares whether or not she likes the drink and whether or not her bum is comfortable in a chair.
     "Diolch, Wallach... you're a good man for a'that..." Davydd takes the bottle and settles back, content to listen for the now. He's a bit pink-eared too. Only Donal'd notice. Yeah, I'm in love. So what. What of it. His right leg starts to bounce.

     The youngest woman in the room makes a face at Davydd, then turns towards Marta. "As I said, things have a way of happening around me. I meet the most interesting people, though." Fiona shrugs, not entirely comfortable with the scrutiny. "I'm ... something. A little bit of this, a little bit of that..."
     She finally takes a seat sideways, resting her fingertips along the back of her chair. "When I summoned the dragon, centaur, mermaid and talking raven, I knew it was starting to get out of hand. The angel that showed up just made me decided it was time to get help - my luck runs hot and cold in streaks, and any good luck can't last forever."

     Marta continues to look at the young woman. "Ah, but yer impressed that y' can call up a dragon," her hand waves, "...a centaur, a mermaid. Or...an angel." Marta smiles thinly, then looks around the table. "Well. Maybe, if y' took a little control of your power, maybe such things wouldn't jes' happen to you. I'm glad though..." Marta grins wanly, "...that you've decided to get help. It's the first step," she assures, the sarcastic look finished with a tilt of her head. "Must be hard to be you, ain't it?"

     Sandrine waves off tea, fingertips pulling her ale towards her. "Thank you, Donal," she smiles sweetly, rather interested in the conversation suddenly. Eyes widen and she looks to Drancy and Marta in turn. Free hand decides to rest on Davydd's bouncing knee.

     A fiery eyebrow quirks up and funny how the leg stops bouncing when Sandrine places her hand on him. But Davydd makes no comment. He tips back the bottle for a drink. No, this one Fiona has to do herself.
     Dark green eyes glance over the plates, and though he may seem to be distracted from the conversation, he is anything but. This ought to be interesting comes the voice in Sandrine's head.

     Fiona shrugs slightly, a bit restless with the line of the conversation, and absently she lifts a hand to tug at one eartip - normal eartips, now, but it's a habit she hasn't been able to break. "I don't come from a family or background where magic is normal or expected. It took me a while to catch up with myself." To the latter question, she shoots back with a lift of her eyebrows, "Is it hard to be you?"

     "And here are the pies," Donal calls, entering the room again with two plates holding warm pie tins. "Mushroom here and...steak," he says, trying to remember which is which.
     Uh oh.

     Dark green flashes to Donal again. Last meals anyone? Lips quick at the corners and he glances to the two women. Maybe this was a mistake, but fuck all I am out of ideas. Davydd clears his throat slightly after another swallow of lukewarm goodness, "Diolch, Donal," he says again. And he glances to Sandrine...

     "Yes," Marta says, matter-of-factly, "...it's hard to be dead when there are people in the glen who need y' day in and day out, no matter if the sun is up." No secret there. "When some are so elderly and they need their medicines and meals during the time they're awake, and y' can't be there or take their medicines to them fast enough."
     "Y' speak of such power so...dismissive, Fiona. Suffice t' say, if I had such ability and I realized 't, I'd be glad and on fire t' find someone who can show me how not to hurt myself, meh friends and family, or...maybe others in the world. But, that's jes' me. I tend t' hate when things..." her hands make quotation marks, "...jes happen to me. I'm glad when you summon'd...an angel was it...that y' decided that botherin' th' holy ranks of the Almighty might not be such a good thing." And the smile returns.
     "Oh, thankee. Please, help yourselves," Marta says, adjusting the plates on the table so that they're in everyone's reach.

     Donal blinks and says, "I'll get a pie server," turning about to disappear, safely, into the kitchen again.

     Davydd looks up, looks between the women and the departing Donal. Coward!

     A few blinks, and Fiona is clearly startled by something that Marta's said, and can't help but shoot a quick glance at Davydd. Dead? What?
     "It's not that I dismiss having the power, so much as that it took me a while to realize what it was - or for that matter, that it was me. A lot of things just ... happened, is all." She shrugs a bit, not willing to rise to battle, it seems, despite a brief glint to her eyes. "As for the angel, I didn't summon him on purpose!" That's right, it was a wrong number, doesn't everyone get those from time to time?

     The Cymri holds up his hands. Don't look at me! I'm not involved in this! Leave me out of it! And with a blithe look, he immediately goes for a pie, server be damned. Green eyes flick to Sandrine. And for some reason his ears go pink, and his complexion splotches at his cheekbones, showing off the freckles of a prince.
     Would you like a bit of pie now.... or later, cariad? Little pie a la Gwynedd, perhaps. Well, you know his meaning. And that's when the ears go pink...

      "And before you summoned an angel," Marta wonders, "...I would guess that you had other incidents, yes?" That wasn't the first time, or the second, she expects. A wave of her hand. "Ne'ermind, lass. I'm not t' fight with ya. But y' are impress'd with yerself and yer abilities. Maybe y' have reason t' be," Marta shrugs. "But until y' become a little more critical of yer powers an' what they may mean t' those you care for or what they'd be like...if -you- fell into th' wrong hands, y' won't take them as seriously, maybe, as I do...as you can tell...or as others might."
     "Like...th' Almighty." Or other deities.

     Sandrine stares at the two women, her beer untouched. She looks at Davydd serving pie and pushes her plate towards him.

     "I found 't!" Donal proclaims, reentering the room. He hands the triangle towards Davydd, who's ahead of him. He tries not to stare at Marta and Fiona, but it's a little hard. There's nothing else more interesting to see.

     There's a Welsh curse for you -- fuck me -- as he tries to use his fingers and burns his thumb. But then the serving triangle is found. "Good on ya'..." Davydd finally glances to the two women as he serves up pie for Sandrine first, himself second. Who stole the real Davydd and put this gentleman pod in his place? "I have to say, that's been my biggest worry. There's all sorts in the world who'd like to use y'... "
     And not just against me...
     Davydd goes back to serving pie, making a wave of his hand. Ignore me. I didn't mean to speak -- carry on -- nevermind my opinion. And he serves up the pie.

     "Actually, I'm aware that there are people out there who ... might mean me ill. That's partly why I'm here to try and learn." Fiona's voice is quiet, and her public school education is showing in the set of her jaw, the tilt to her head. "I'm impressed, yes, but not necessarily positively." She glances up at Donal, giving him a polite little smile.
     Of course, underneath the tweeds and silks, she's a lot less comfortable.... Was this a good idea? I feel like a circus sideshow freak. Maybe I should've worn the leather instead.
     "Both of the ... gentlemen," she is careful of their names - no doubt Huw and Hwyll would laugh to see it - "who I met from other realms," well, the ones Fiona knows were of other realms, "were originally sent to protect me."

     Marta glances at Davydd, then returns to Fiona's otherworldly associates. She is not prepared to discuss them, her expression waning. "When did all this start?" she asks simply.

     Davydd looks to the ceiling, doing the math. Let's see... that was right after I met Sandrine. A year and a half? He glances to Drancy. "What... about a year and a half from the time I found you laid out on the street having that argument with the tree?"

     "About that," Fiona agrees, hands now in her lap. "Of course, it didn't start right away... but that was the first, mm, odd event." Dragons and memories and bad things, oh my.

     Not that Sandrine really wanted pie. Granted, it's good pie - that in her expression as she tastes it - but pie is a faint shadow of food far more sustaining. She nibbles at her fork, still paying attention to the conversation.
     "Lovely pie, Marta," she murmurs.

     Donal takes a seat and pulls his bit of pie towards himself. The ale is handled first, however, and he takes a large swill of it. "That's not s' long," Donal suggests, trying to correct the boat. "So's good that y' are looking now."

      "Ah, thank you, Sandrine," Marta replies, giving the woman a bright smile.
     "So, what do you want to have happen, Fiona? Why are you here now? Other than Davydd tryin' to find some help." Yes, I know you, Davydd. "What path are you on, Fiona?" Marta's voice even in its pacing. "Why are you in Scotland?"

     And Davydd promptly starts eating pie, sharing a look with Donal. Beneath the table, his free hand surrounds one of Sandrine's. He doesn't go into the dragons, Isabella, any of that. That's Fiona's to tell, as he sees it. He listens.
     And, aye... Marta does indeed know. The dragons and all. The only one outside of Sandrine to know the Sidhe Champion's story in full. Or as fully as he's ever told it.

     "Largely because Davydd said that you could help," Fiona's voice is even, and she leans back in her seat, "and because I trust him. He's the only one who was there from the beginning, even if he didn't intend to be. And while I don't particularly intend to bring him grief over it, I figure this way by coming to see you, he's less likely to have grief over me in the long run than if I didn't."
     She's not eating, her stomach too uncomfortable under the circumstances to even think of eating. Her loss. Fiona doesn't allow the discomfort to rise to her face, though - again, that public school education.

     Marta is quiet a moment, gaze on the pie in the center of the table. Collecting thoughts. "Well, you're blunt. I'd rather you be Honest," she says.
     Aren't those the same thing?
     Marta pushes her mane of dark auburn hair aside, hands folding in her brown cord skirt. She gives a faint smile that turns into a purse of her lips. "How's the pie, Davydd? Donal?" she asks, looking at the two men. "Grouse, aye?"

     "Ah, Marta," Donal says, swallowing and wiping his mouth. "S'good as all way." He picks up his ale and drinks from the cup.

     "Don't let's make this about me," Davydd rumbles, and he's halfway through his pie, the swirl of the fork against his tongue, his other hand holding its quiet, Nordic partner. "You want to know, you want to figure it out. To be frank, I'll survive regardless of whether you learn or not." Great shoulders shrug and he settles back.
     This is not about me...
     Green eyes go to Marta then and the Cymri smiles broad and warm. "Pie's excellent, dearie. As ever. Will you ever tire of me showing up to eat your food and prop my feet up on your table like some great stray..." And he winks, and then he turns to Sandrine. "How's it?" he murmurs. It'll be better later.

     For a moment, grey eyes narrow with a hint of anger. Fiona might be many things, but she's not usually a liar. "I don't know what you expect of me. I'm telling you the truth as I understand it." She shifts back in her seat further, and seems to be preparing to pull a boulder up over herself. Waiting things out... Davydd just gets a glance, and that's all.

     Marta shakes her head. "I didn't say that you were false, Fiona. I believe that the things you have said have happened to you. That's alright," she waves. "We can talk about what I mean anoth'r time. Want some pie?" Marta asks, reaching over to pull her ale to herself. "Or, mebbe you all'd like t' see yer rooms? Y'had a long drive t' here..."

     Davydd waves that thought off, and he points to his remaining pie with his fork. At least for himself, he's fine where he is.

     "And no," Marta adds. "Y'always welcome here."

      Sandrine's minced with her pie, but at the question of being alright and having a room, she pipes up, "Actually, I am a little tired. Do you mind?" she asks Donal and Marta, looking at them in turn.

     Well, when she puts it that way. Davydd clears his throat. "I should round up the animals and pack us all in," a look to Sandrine. "Now that you mention it." Davydd sets his fork down and slowly rises, letting loose of Sandrine's hand. "I'll go be Noah..."

     "No, no," Donal says, glancing at Marta. She has reason to stay and sit. "I'll help you get yer things," he says, rising with Davydd. "You'll get the good room," he teases. Donal swallows another wash of his ale, then moves around to accompany Davydd outside to the Range Rover. "Oh," he stops, "I'll show you the room first and then go out," he murmurs, mostly noting his plans to himself.

     When everyone else starts to rise, so does Fiona, before shooting a glance to Marta. She's silent, the confusion held fast behind her eyes without being given voice on lips or expression. "If you'd need a hand...?"

     "Oh, thanks lass, but we're good," Donal calls, stepping to the hall door closest to the front door. "It won't take much. Four hands is fine." He steps in the short corridor and opens a second door for Sandrine, light already on. "Here," he motions.

     Sandrine smiles at Fiona, "Davydd'll get it." Frik is picked up and put into her arms. "It's just been a long ride. I'll freshen and come back." A spin, and she follows Donal's path, brushing him as she moves down the corridor and to the front bedroom.

      Marta is content to reach over and pull the remainder of Donal's steak pie her direction. Picking up his fork, she takes a bite, and her brow rises in delight. "Hm. Not bad," she murmurs, taking another taste. "Sure you don't want any, Fiona?" she asks again. "It's not horrible, if I say so myself..."

     "Aye, aye... I've got it. Donal'll load me up like one of the sultan's prized camels," he flashes a grin to Donal, gives the man a tussle and watches Sandrine walk out of the room. He's not close to subtle about it. He then steps away from the table and heads to the door. He opens it, gives a whistle for the dogs and waits for them to scurry in...

     Slowly, Fiona eases back into her seat. "Maybe in a little bit, if you won't mind. We did have luncheon, and I'm not terribly hungry just yet." And she's still not at ease, and it's ruining her appetite - her mother would weep. Well, maybe not her mother, but her Jewish grandmother might...
     Turning her head, she watches people come and go but mostly go, listening for the sounds of doors and dogs. "Your doors, they don't ... talk, do they?" Fiona glances warily back at Marta.

     A frown comes. Not in displeasure, but in confused puzzling. "No, not that I'm aware of," Marta replies. "But, I canna say that...they really don't talk. If they do, I jes can't hear 'em. Why do y' ask?"

     They don't scurry as much as they toddle. Maybe the weight from all of Davydd's eating goes straight to those dogs. Both of them are fat as squatty little bears. They need to go on a diet.
     At the mention of doors talking, Davydd just cocks up his eyebrows. No comment. "I don't think you have to worry about any fairies popping out of the woodwork. More'n are already here anyhoo," he rumbles. Dogs in, he steps outside to get the stuff out of the Rover.

     With that response, Fiona relaxes minutely, turning only to in a very unladylike manner, stick her tongue out at Davydd. She turns back to the woman at the table, and mutters, "I've had some ... bad experiences with doors, considering I don't tend to do drugs." Only drink herself drunk around vampiric men.

     "I don't understand," Marta says, finishing up the pie and reaching to cut herself another piece.

     Moments later, there's a great commotion. Davydd (who else) coming through the door laden down with everyone's personals, a bag for him and the missus, Drancy's gear, the basket of sandwiches, one of which found its way into his mouth....

      "That way," Donal grunts, holding Sandrine's purse and the cat's food. "Fiona can have the middle room."

     The Arundel's gear is pretty simple, though not as simple as some - a single suitcase, and a backpack which has seen better days and is emblazoned with 'Punk's Not Dead - It's Just Having A Little Lie-Down'. Fiona glances up guiltily, uncomfortable with leaving her belongings to be carted by someone else. Some things take longer than others to reacquire...
     "It's ... a long story, but I ended up dealing with men who could turn into doors and other things. So, basically, anything and everything that was there could end up talking back." And Huw the cat - sometimes cushion - and Hwyll, the spring, and all the rest can just go hang, is the sour thought in Drancy's mind.

     Well, it's not as if I'm rifling through your bags! Still, Davydd smiles and without further interruption, for the now, he heads first into the room he'll be sharing with Sandrine, dropping off two bags and then turning to the next room, to drop off the backpack and the single suitcase -- very Jackie-O, by the by...

     Marta nods, not looking so surprised at the concept that things talk. "Can't promise that won't happen 'ere...now that you're here. Magic follows magic," Marta explains, "...it canna help it. Magic needs an' is 'tract'd to more magic. It's like a beacon. But...with us bein' here, that's less likely."
     "Davydd!" Marta suddenly yells, sitting upright. "Are y' treatin' this like a holiday? How long y' here for?" Then, quieter to Fiona, "Did y' plan t' stay longer, or..." what's the story?

      "We'll be leaving as soon as you throw us out, Marta. Same as ever," he calls back. "I just don't want to leave it in the car...what if marauding bandits," such as I used to be, "...or god help us all the Huns roll in and give the Rover a toss. I'd lose my change of undies..."

     With very much an expression of Don't look at ME!, Fiona looks over at Davydd. "The backpack has my essentials," she contributes. "The suitcase just has clothes, cosmetics, toiletries, things like that. And, well, I'll take your word for it - I just wanted to be aware of any pre-existing conditions." She hesitates for a moment, then gives voice to the question she's been dying to ask :
     "What did you mean - about being dead?"

     Marta was about to say something else at Davydd, then stops at the question. She blinks a few times, then murmurs, "Well...not really dead. Y'know what a banshee is?" she asks, setting fork down as she swallows. "Some have been...meh relations." Related to me. Probably making me, like one. Sorta. Marta shrugs as she does yell, "I don't care if y' stay, jes wonderin'..."

     Davydd's laughter issues from the back. "I'm not a Saxon, darlin'. I don't just move in and start planting turnips just because you stopped and asked me for the time."
     Lord but that man's voice carries...

     "Oh. Well, no, I don't know much about banshees." Fiona doesn't look fussed, much - after meeting faeries and dragons and angels, it's hard to get worked up much over a banshee - and only a poor cousin, at that. "I -" She glances up at Davydd, and asks, "Saxons do that a lot, then, do they."

     "Saxons are the worst," Donal says, as if he knows about Saxons or something. He returns from seeing about Sandrine and giving her the cat food. He moves to the table and begins to pick up stray dishes, finally noticing that his pie is gone.

     There's quiet from down the hall, muted voices: one of them female and asking him whether it might not be better if he went back to the living room rather than yelling back and forth. "Well, they did...what are they teaching kids in school these days?" Davydd thunders. Then he's quiet again.

     Marta nods about not knowing about banshees. Few do. She swallows the last piece of her second slice of pie, folding her hands at her lap again. Her knees poke at the material of her skirt, and her feet tap on the stone floor.
     "Do you have any idea what y' want t' learn, Fiona? Or, maybe we should talk 'bout 't tomorrow eve. I'm sure you could do with a lie-in."

     "I've no idea," Fiona admits candidly. "I'm not really in a position to know what to learn, so it's hard for me to give you an answer. Knowing how to keep strange things from happening around me - or react reasonably when they do - mightn't be a bad idea."

     "That is a start," Marta nods. "It might also be nice for you to meet more of your own kind?" she wonders.

     Fiona glances towards where Davydd was last seen. "Well, that sort of beggars the question, doesn't it." Her own kind. No, that just narrows it right down. "There's a bit of debate on that score, and I don't know of a competent arcanicological biologist. Got one in the bag?"

     Marta looks confused again. "I'm sorry, I dinna understand? Debate?"

     There's not a peep coming from that back bedroom at the moment. Just the incidental noises of two people settling down. No conversation. No whispering. No gossip. No comments from the peanut gallery.

     A sigh from the girl. "We're not entirely sure what I'd be classified as. I'm a bit of this and a bit of that - if you've got a guess to make, go right ahead." Fiona slouches slightly, the punk in her coming to the fore for just a moment. "That's the best I know how to explain. I'm sorry."

     Marta unlaces her fingers and waves her hand. "Ne'ermind. We'll talk about it later. Why don't y' go see th' room an' rest, hmm? Take pie and pint with," she motions. Everyone's getting tired. "I should see about meh boys." More than likely dogs.

     Fiona nods, rising to her feet. "Thank you," she says politely, "for your hospitality. I do apologize for being difficult; it isn't intentional." It just comes naturally. She slips in the direction she saw her bags disappearing.

     Marta waves that off too. Habit of hers: expression in her hands. She sits for a moment and looks around the table before rising to help Donal finish cleaning up.

     Meanwhile, the door to that back room is softly closed. Not slammed shut. Not closed with commentary. Simply closed.

I am a wind of the sea, I am a wave of the sea, I am a sound of the sea...      I watched the moon dip downward to the edge of the moors, turn pick with approaching day. I sang its setting and the rising of the sun with earthy voice and otherworldly motive. Sleep, I whispered to you, and sleep throughout the day. Sleep so long as my voice sounds this song. Sleep came to all, but not to me. I am a stag of seven tines, I am a griffon on a cliff, I am a tear of the sun...      The sun turned the world purple, the smell and hum of Spring I had forgotten. Heather covers the rise and fall of land, and I could feel the pull of the sun upward arching to noon, feel it on my skin with the drag of dragon's claws. I am a boar in the field, I am a salmon in a pool, I am a lake upon a plain and I am a hill of poetry, I am a battle-waging spear, I am a god who forms fire for the head... I will approach the rath of the Sidhe to see a cunning poet that together we may concoct incantations... I am a wind of the sea...      I opened my eyes as the light passed over the hills and I sang until the hills and the approaching darkness of another night hid the face of the sun. I feel it setting, dusk resting its cool hand upon my cheek, and my throat, mouth and tongue still the song.      Davydd sits upon an old, but comfortable chair. A change of clothes from yesterday. He wears a light sweater upon his mountainous form, red that is the same color of the color against his high-cut cheeks and goes fetching with the bronze of his hair. Still cut short, but not as short as it was, there are waves and curls now. And ... the man's shaved. And smoking his morning/evening cigarette. The corgies sit at his feet, resting as they have been (like everyone else).

     It'll be a while before Sandrine will be seen. It is no mean feat to look perfect all of the time. Another hour or so will pass before she makes an appearance. Time, she has, in abundance.
     Marta, on the other hand, has been up for an hour. Too much to do, too little time. Outside, a second Range Rover has appeared, this one black with tinted windows. Dogs bark outside, but despite the open door, they remain in the twilight. The house smells of recent cooking, and Marta moves quickly, as if preparing to go somewhere.
     "You had better sav'd some of those pies, Davydd," she warns. "I am to take those to the Farmer Jack and Annie. She can't cook s' well these days..."

     Two black Land Rovers, it'll look like the government's moved in. Bah, wrong country, too much telly. There's a snort from the chair and a drag on the cig, "I kept away from the pies, my lovely," Llywelyn croons, as only he can after a full day of singing, "...but the sandwiches were decimated. Haven't seen a slaughter like that since the Brigantes bared their bums to Caesar," deep green eyes flick a wink.

     Fiona stumbles out of the room given her, and lo, and behold, she is clearly not at her best first thing after waking up. She might have gotten back into the habit of garbing herself in a different kind of armour, but half a decade or so of habit isn't undone overnight...
     Not even by jumping off a bridge.
     Her hair's sticking up in all directions, a vivid unnatural shock like some unruly marigold popping up unexpectedly amidst more stately tulips and lilies. The shirt she wears is about two or three sizes too large, a vast mannish thing with crumpled creases and sleeves that hang down past her hands. Fiona's pulled on a pair of designer jeans, but her shoes? Bunny slippers which've had little plastic horns glued on in the appropriate place, thick black malicious eyebrows drawn on with a marker.
     "Mmmph," the girl mumbles, pulling the door shut behind her and feeling her way for the kitchen.

     Marta stops and stares at Davydd, face grimacing. She shakes it off and keeps packing a cooler near the kitchen archway. "Ah see yer girl's fond of herself," Marta sneers, chestnut hair swinging like a mane. "Would she know what hard labor's like if 't bit 'er in the arse?"

     From outdoors, Donal yells, "I got th' bike on!"
     Whatever that's about.
     Before Davydd can reply, Marta rises to see Fiona appear. "Well, evening lass. We figur'd you died in there." Ha.

     Eyes of forest (in more ways than one) lift up from the tapping of ash in a tray and smoke edges out upon a growl of laughter. "Well, well, well... if it isn't Sleeping Beauty..." Davydd smirks to Marta. "The kids today," he rumbles. Eyebrows cock up. She knows nothing of the kind of work that you do, for certes, but then... you're a marvel of a woman, Marta. One of a kind, dearie...
     Davydd rolls forward, exhaling smoke mightily through mouth and nose, fire-breathing dragon indeed, and he rubs his eyes and he hides a yawn. He stamps his feet and he wakes his dogs. "Well, there goes the sight-seeing," he looks to Fiona, cocking up a brow. "You alright?"

     Eyes more closed than not, not unlike a newborn kitten, Fiona just turns a scowl in Davydd's expression. "Sod off," she mutters, without real resentment but with the particular grouchiness of someone who isn't even remotely a morning person.
     "If this is what country air does to one... no wonder I don't go to the family's estates." She drops into a chair with a heavy thump, and tilts forward, cheek smacking against the table's surface. "Guh. Feel almost hung over."
     One eye opens, and the voice asks, plaintively, "Coffee? Tea? Anything?"

     "Yeah," Marta tosses a shoulder, "...in there. Help yerself," she offers, seeming to have her hands full. "There's scones on th' left stove," she motions, stacking foil-covered pies into the cooler. "Done," she murmurs, then calls, "Donal! This ready too.."
     Apparently she got away with the remark on Sandrine. Marta looks at Davydd a moment, then to the girl. "Nice," she motions to the evil-bunny feet. "Well, till you run into one..." she murmurs, bending to pick up her cooler and move it to the front door.

     Oh. That girl! Girl? That's no girl -- that's a woman. Davydd is slow on the uptake but he gets it. Hmm. He stamps out his cigarette and stands. "Go by the car," he says to the corgies. Lifting their rotund bodies off the ground, they troddle off outside, through the open door to sit by their black Land Rover.
     If he didn't know better, he'd say that Marta's got a wee touch of the Green Monster. There's been a bit of that tension since he arrived with another woman in tow. He hadn't thought of that angle. But then, he's a man...
     "Good morning to you too, you little ray of fucking sunshine," Davydd rumbles in reply to Fiona, mouth twisting a half-smile, peeking into the kitchen. "You look like shite's kid sister. We'll be heading out in a bit. Enjoy your coffee."
     By the time she's finished, Sandrine'll be ready and Davydd'll have the car loaded. With that, and a last glance to Marta (What's the matter?) he heads to the back and to the room he didn't sleep in last night.

     "Mmph," goes Fiona again (though right now, she's closer to being Drancy). She pushes herself up, trundling blearily to the coffee and pouring and mixing in cream and sugar. What, you thought she took it black?
     Leaning against the counter, she takes her first mouthful, then her second. After about the third, the eyes open to half-mast. After about the eighth, they're fully open.
     "Christ," she mutters. "I feel like someone whacked me over the back of the head with a cricket bat. I'm going to go change shoes and shirt and brush my hair, a'right?" Stumble. Stumble stumble.
     So ... motor control comes after the first cup.

      "Alright," Marta smirks. She picks up several paper bags, certainly filled with small baked goods. Apparently, she feeds many.
     "If I'm not here when yer done, lass, it was good t' meet ya," Marta says, moving the bags to the door where Donal faithfully comes to pick them up. Marta glances at Davydd, then looks to Fiona again. "I think," she says straight-forwardly, "...that I'm mebbe not the help that you might need. An...I'm not sure I know anyone who is. Well, at least I'm sure they're not out here..." she smirks.

     Davydd's out of the picture at this point, in more ways than one. There's the sound of the bedroom door closing softly. Apparently he's going to rouse the missus. And grab the bags.

     Marta watches him go, "Not sure why he's in a rush," she blinks, then looks to you. She smiles and moves to take a seat at the table, hand opening to the chair across from her.

     Coming back with a t-shirt that reads 'CHESS : DON'T FUCK A PAWN' on the front, and a picture of a queen piece with a battleaxe on the back, Fiona blinks sleepily at Marta. "Him? He's always in a rush. 'Cept when he's not..."
     She goes and refills her mug, doctoring it once again, then settles into the chair indicated. "Well, it was Davydd's idea," Fiona says pragmatically, shrugging, "not mine. Not your fault it's not the right way to go."

     Marta shrugs too, only a quarter-less ornery than she was last evening. "He's worryin' for you," she observes, "..an' he's frustrat'd. I think you are too," she surmises, fuzzy brow arching at you. "But frankly y'both are too much for meh," Marta admits.
     "Especially if yer not sure what you want t' figure out about all this too. What 'bout those sidhe that you all mention'd last eve?" Sure they can't help?

     "I can't blame him for worrying. I worry me, too. And while so far, I've managed to stay one step ahead of myself, it's only a matter of time before I catch up." Fiona shrugs, propping one elbow on the table and tipping her chair back slightly. "I can't expect to jump off bridges and get away with it every time... the odds're against me."
     A slow blink. "The .. sidhe?" It takes her a moment - she's not used to thinking of Huw and Hwyll as 'sidhe'. They're just ... fucking faeries who happen to have come when she called, for some reason. "They're ... they don't live here. They live somewhere else, and I'm not really ideally suited for their place, nor they for here. Besides, they're too obsessed with getting laid."

     He seems to be rushing around, he seems to be in a hurry, to be honest he's afraid if he sits down again he'll fall asleep. But there's lines at the corners of his eyes, they show up when he's a bit fatigued, and when he appears again, laden with the very few bags he carried in last night, it shows. He's moving like a Welsh mountain.
     On his own schedule...
     And he's lit another fag. He chain smokes when he's drunk or when he's tired. Who knows, maybe he's a bit of both. At the mention of Sidhe and getting laid, Davydd pauses, cocking up an eyebrow. "I resemble that remark," the rumbles lazily, cigarette bobbing as he speaks, clasped by an agile mouth. "When they're not fornicating they're bargain-hunting." And he doesn't mean for shoes...

     Well, that's not surprising, her look says. "That's t' bad," Marta says softly, eyes lifting when Davydd returns. She seems annoyed that, but doesn't verbalize it. "I'm not sure why they wouldn't help..." her hand waves, looking for the word, "...kin..." not quite, but close enough. "But, I've ne'er known one wit' any faith..."

     "I think it's less would they, than could they. This isn't their ... place." Fiona struggles to put it in a way which will be understood, without compromising anything she's been told - she really doesn't know how much they'd object to her saying. "Bargain-hunting?"
     She rakes her fingers through her hair, tugging the locks back from her face. It gives her a little less of a Troll-doll look. "Faith in what? Relatives? I'm not too keen on some of my distant cousins, I admit, they obviously spiked the gene pool's water, but." If she only knew how much...

     At the mention of the gene pool, the Sidhe champion makes himself scarce. Davydd gives a shoulder to the outside are and rumbles to his dogs. Hello, lads, he says. Good on ya, boyo.
     There's no more from Davydd now, nothing but the sound of the Land Rover's doors being opened and the few bags and one basket totally devoid of sandwiches being loaded in...

     "No," Marta says, "...ne'er known any wit' faith. Ne'er follow up on their word." That's what she meant. But no matter. That discussion's irrelevant -- and even if not, Marta appears not privy to some of the finer details.
     "So, what's next?" she asks of Fiona and the semi-listening Davydd.

     "Oh." Fiona shrugs, taking a mouthful of coffee, frowning in intent if brief thought. "Don't know, really. Get back to London. Get back to work." She jerks a thumb at her backpack. "Already got messages to take care of - I'll need to see what that's all about. It's all well and good being a fairy princess, but the real world doesn't tend to wait for me to decide on a magic wand to match my outfit."
     She slouches down a few more inches in her seat, crossing her legs. "I'll worry about that, I suppose, first - see if anything occurs to me. But it seems to me that while an awful lot's happened to me without my asking, me jumping in reaction to them hasn't ... helped."

     Call it the residue of a long, fucking day. The energy that in the song's ending had crested and peaked is now waning. Wax of the moon, wane of the moon. It's very mystical, mind you. But when he comes back in, he's got a heel of a hand to his eyes, giving a rub and meandering toward the kitchenette.
     Davydd gives a blink and makes a slow bee-line for the coffee, and the world slows to a crawl. "Marta, I appreciate you giving us an ear," he warmly murrs, voice hanging in his chest, coming in a Welsh drawl. He pours a cup, a bit of cream (it's fresh, you know), a dollop of sugar and he turns to join them at the table. "You know I love ya, aye?" His free hand lands a touch on her shoulder.

     Marta's gaze lifts to Davydd at her side, then a slight frown. She's not sure where that came from, but she pats his hand as he goes by. Attention returns to Fiona. "Mebbe then you should check how y' act t' things." She can only guess. "Know any mages?" Marta suggests lastly.

     "Stop giving me the eye like I piddled on your begonias, woman," Davydd exhales as he slowly slides into the chair. "Can't a man say he love you without you getting all ..." Whatever it is. Women!
     Dark eyes glance out the door. Donal, where are you? Why are you not here backing my ass up. Bah.

     "Mages...?" Well, not that've been introduced as such. Fiona looks at Marta blankly. "Would those be the ones who pop in out of nowhere, or are those one of the other ones?" Oh, that narrows it down. But that's the problem - she just doesn't know.
     With a shake of her head, the punk-turned-noblewoman rises, finishing off her coffee and crossing to the sink to wash out the mug. "And, Davydd," she retorts, with a hint of a grin now she's had coffee, "it's when it comes out of the blue that they don't trust you. Because men only say it out of the blue when they've done something wrong - sort've like young children." She dries the mug off, then sets it upside-down on the counter. Just in case.
     "React to things? Well, I've toned it down a lot - but whenever I've poked, it's poked back, and in general, it's been sort of ... not a mirror, exactly, but." Fiona leans against the counter, crossing her arms. "Maybe if I leave it alone for a little while..."

     "What?" Marta says, her nose twisting at Davydd. "What are y' blatherin' about? I'm talkin' to the girl here, an'..." well, Fiona said it. She looks back at Fiona, "Maybe yer right," Marta agrees. "...a differn't approach." Between Davydd in her head and verbally giving compliments, Marta's gotten a little weirded.

     Davydd sips his coffee, a rumbling sound echoing in that great chest. He says no more. Fine. Another sip of coffee and he reaches for another cigarette. He's the worst of all of Them, the wretched triumverate of Plantagenet-Meurelle-and-Llywelyn. He smokes like Vesuvius.

     "Well," Fiona says with a shrug, "I'll give it a shot. Worst comes to worst and it doesn't work..." There are other bridges, both physical and metaphorical. "I'll just go make sure I packed all my things, then, and take it out to the car."

     Marta nods, rising from her seat as things seem done. Now Marta gives her attention to Davydd, hands on her hips. "Are y' alright?" she wonders, curious as to where all this affectation is coming from. "And sorry..." Marta offers for her lack of anything useful.

     "Didn't sleep well," he murmurs, lighting the cigarette. He makes a wave. Actually, he didn't sleep at all. He's going to be a right sourpuss come midnight. That is, unless he can get Sandrine weaving or singing or feeling otherwise inspired and then grab a bit of dindin...
     "No need to rush on my account," Davydd notes to Fiona. "I saw Donal packin' up and thought we needed to give the house back imminently..."

     "S'a'right. I need to do something with my hair, anyway." Fiona waves a hand absently as she slips to the bedroom. "...And my underwear's riding up on me worse'n a London cabbie at rush hour," she grumbles. Coffee only goes so far in lieu of having been up a while. "...I'll be out in a few."

     "Aye, no rush," Marta agrees, Donal appearing at the doorframe expecting more packages. "We have a few things yet," she says. "I'm leavin' a pie if you're game, but yer welcome t' stay as you wish. Donal'll be here..." Marta explains. Wherever she's going, she's going alone.

      "Right," Donal affirms. He looks at Davydd, "I can help y' load, Davy-bach..."

     The door opens down the hall and Sandrine emerges from the room. Her shoes tap on the floor as she approaches, hands smoothing her dress.
     "Hallo," she says, looking around to everyone as if asking 'what did I miss'?

     Fiona has disappeared into the room's confines once again - one woman appears, the other disappears. They can only be around Davydd in shifts, you see. Inside the room, the editor picks up her cellphone, frowning at the blinking message light, then goes to respond to whoever's so bloody eager to find her while she's on vacation..

     Davydd takes a long drag from the cigarette, glancing up and over to Donal. "Oi, boyo... most of it's in the kit. There wasn't much. I can get the rest." He glances around, then finally cups his hand and catches the ashes there.
     Davydd rises after a half moment -- sod this, I want my coffee -- and he heads to the chair he once occupied and the tray that once caught the ashes from an earlier cigarette. There's a smile for his woman, "Marta's pushing off to work... Donal's offering to load up the car... and I'm on my third cig and first cup of coffee," how's that for a summary.

     Donal nods, picking up a few last bags and jugs of water before turning out of doors again.

     "So, we're going then," Sandrine asks, trying to assess what's happened. "And...Fiona?" what of her? Things alright?

     Marta chimes in, picking up a backpack, "She's goin' with. I don't think I'm much use," she repeats for Sandrine's benefit.

     "I guess," he exhales full weighty, "... she's on her own then. I've shot my wad and am at a full loss." With tray in hand, Davydd heads back to his coffee. More importantly to his chair. He sits heavily down and then half-sprawls, flicking ash. "But maybe that's alright," Davydd says quietly after a moment. "Maybe she doesn't have to know right away and maybe I don't have to be the one to help her figure it out. Magic that powerful... needs a guide, is all..."
     That's his main concern. And they think he's a loose cannon!

     Sandrine nods, not sure if it was all a success or not. But she isn't one to interfere in things. "Well, alright," she says agreeably, "I guess...I will get my things..." turning on a heel to grab her bag.

     Meanwhile, the loose railgun in the guest bedroom finishes up her cellphone call, a thoughtful expression on her face, After a moment to think, she goes to her suitcase... and changes into a more businesslike outfit. Primrose silk blouse, tailored charcoal slacks and matching jacket, add a platinum watch and a pair of earrings and a necklace - she shoves the devilbunny slippers into her suitcase, taking out a pair of pumps, and turns to the mirror.
     "The only magic trick I can do," Fiona mutters, staring at her reflection in the mirror. "Reliably, at least." She tugs a lock of fuschia hair, concentrating as she pulls rather hard... until from the roots downward, it turns to the pale gold of her natural colouration. "That's better," she says with a grim sort of satisfaction, twisting the hair up into a french knot. She slings her bag over her shoulder, picking up her grip, and moves back out to the kitchen.

     He stamps out his cigarette, blows smoke to the heavens and then starts to rise. "I'll load the rest of the things," Davydd announces, not that they had a lot. A bag or two each -- mostly for Wales -- and then Drancy/Fiona's back-pack and case, which she has a good handle on at the moment.
     And so he leaves you two to sort out farewells, banshee to witch. You know, girls' chat. He rakes a hand through bronze waves and yawns on his way to the room.

     Marta stands in the room alone for a moment. No Donal, no Fiona, no Sandrine, no Davydd. She looks around the house she shares with her friend, knowing she shall not see the place again for perhaps a week or two. A smile, and she looks to the returning young woman.
     "I'm going t' go," Marta says, glancing down the hall where Davydd and Sandrine are picking up their bags. "Be well," she says to Fiona, nodding in approval to the fine dress. "A lady you are," she says, herself very different. "Good luck t' ya..."
     "Oh, would y' do me a favor? I'm not good wit' leavings, so can y' tell Davy and his girl that I will see them again?" Somewhere along the road. "An' tell Davy he's still a good man." Cause heavens know that he needs his ego massaged. Marta chuckles and moves towards her door. A grin and she looks at the strange girl again.

     "Alright," Fiona looks slightly curious, one eyebrow raised, but who is she to argue? "Thank you for your hospitality - I am sorry that it wasn't quite-quite." She similiarly heads for the door, shifting her grip on her bags. "I will tell them, as you wish. Safe tidings," she adds, a dim memory prompted by something Huw or Hwyll once said, or something Isabel might've thought, "until the wind's at your back again."

     "Aye, an' ye," Marta murbles, her older Rover already running. Apparently she and Donal have a ritual. He's at the Rover door, having just shut the rear door. Marta climbs in, tossing her pack to the side and swinging her hair around to a more manageable position.
     "Less than a fort," she says to Donal, setting expectations. Dogs are inside, and a bike with a basket is attached to the hood.

     As the Land Rover door closes and the banshee heads off into the night, in a manner of speaking, one Welsh dragon and one Lappland princess appear. It's been an odd night of ins and out...
     Tide and ebb...
     I am the wind of the sea and so on...
     Davydd looks around for Marta briefly, "She knock off, then?" One bag in hand, he holds his free hand out to take Fiona's others. "Here's the drill. You're heading to London, we're heading to Wales. How about we take you to the nearest train main and I'll pay your way back, first class..."

     That catches her off-guard - she actually blinks. A bit stiffly, Fiona says, "Yes, she said to tell you that she'll see you both again, and that you're still a good man. - I can pay for myself," she adds, chin rising momentarily, "but yes, I would appreciate a lift to the train station." She tightens her hold on her luggage for a moment - she's only got the two bags - then hands them over slowly.

     Sandrine comes behind Davydd, listening to your conversation. "Are you sure," she pipes in, glancing at Davydd, "...that we can't take you back to London?" In the car we came in? "We're happy to..." she says softly.

     Donal watched the Rover go, then steps over where you all are gathered. He's quiet, letting this part get sorted before giving his goodbyes soo.

     I'm a man, that's for certain. Good? She's kind to say. "Alright, we'll drive to London," he sighs it out theatrically, as if the last bit was his idea of a sick joke. Maybe it was. Maybe he realized it was rude. "I did the driving last time, it's someone else's turn. And good on Marta. I'll be sure to thank her when I see her next. Are we all ready?" He's starting to grouse.
     Half-turning, Davydd motions you both out to the car, "Let's go before we start growing moss and sprouting, aye? I think Donal's become a tree..."
     "Donal!" he barks out, a bit of warmth -- and that may be the last of it for the evening -- and he spreads his arms, full of bags and all, to his old friend. "You must come to Wales, bring Marta, it'll be my turn to host next round..."

     Sandrine nods, "I can drive," liking this response better. Of course it would be rude to leave her at a train station. But a polite series of questions is always better than a nudge in the side or a slap on the back of the head.
      "Yes, thank you, Donal," Sandrine grins, taking keys from Davydd before she moves to get in to driver's side.

     Fiona looks a bit confused, all in all, eyes half-wary, but she just quietly moves for the car - almost expecting, once on the road, to be taken to the train station after all. She gives Sandrine a bit of a querying look, but shrugs - hardly wanting to press the matter. Donal gets a quick, but remarkably silent smile.

     "You're welcome, all way," Donal grins, moving over to hug Davydd at his shoulders. 'Y'know we ne'er go t' that God-forsak'n land o' yours, Davydd. But nice you ask'd," he grins. A wave is given to the ladies, vigorous and with a smile. "In truth, y'know, she ne'er leaves here..." Marta that is.
     "I'll see you soon," Donal simply leaves it, hands slipping back into his pockets.

     "Bah, don't hate us because we're beautiful," he rattles, giving Donal a hug as he may and a rough pat. "An' if you hear from the Great Northern Git o' The Highlands," William, "... be sure to tell him hello and he owes me a phonecall, the ingrate."
     Davydd turns, looking to Sandrine as she takes the keys. He gives her a grateful -- and weary -- look. "Diolch," he murmurs. "You know how to drive, right?" He winks. "Ah, you're good to me... even when I'm an ass of a man. Good or no. Or maybe I have a good ass?"
     Keys surrendered, Davydd heads to the back to toss in the rest of the bags. Hands free, he moves to open any door a woman hasn't already opened for herself and then looks to the dogs. "Alright boyos, time for the great southern migration..."

Posted by rowan at August 02, 2003 12:31 AM