A rainy London night. Do they make any other kind? Foggy perhaps but that's about as far as the range goes. The hour is late, well past midnight. Sensible people should not be awake at this hour, but London has never been populated by terribly sensible people. It also is home to many creatures that skulk in the night.
     One such creature has come to haunt the back alleys and byways this dark wet evening. His ancestral haunt has long been Northumberland, but now his reputation lingers in those lands more than he does. This creature haunts the night all over Europe, and the new World. If some knew he had returned here they would be most nervous. Moreso than many of his contemporaries he rules the night. The shadows guard him and he can be anywhere, or anyone and you would never know it. He could be in this very room right now waiting to step from a shadow our show you his true face when taken for a friend or lover.
     And sometimes he just uses the front door. From the front stoop of the brownstone the sound of heavy knocking can be heard.

     A yellow shirt is grabbed off the sofa where it was thrown about an hour ago. Short sleeved for the summer, even though summer's warmth hasn't really landed in London yet. Bare feet pad across the carpet and then the tile of the foyer.
     Within the eye-hole peep of the door a gold-green eye appears, scoping who's knocking at This Incredibly Late Hour...
     "Man at the door," Valan says. He twists, pulling on the shirt. "I don't recognize him." Golden eyebrows lift. You want to take this one?

     Vampire ears can hear the sound of another set of steps, these a bit harder. A click. Then silence. One can imagine a hand motioning to get away from the door, fingers at the lips as if to say shh.
     More silence. You might wish to smile for the cameras.
     Inside, Edward glances at the vid screen inside a drop panel of one of the foyer's walls.
     After another moment, there comes the clear, unmistakable sound...
     "Fuck me! Wot the fuck?"
     A curious look is tossed at Valan. The Browning is lowered, and Edward says, "Um, you can open the door. It's a friend." He steps back, turning to place the 9mm back into its ledge rest.

     Valan opens the door. Flip of a latch. Flip of a lock. Fort Knox in reverse. And then he swings it open, his hand moving through his short golden hair. He has that fresh out of bed look. It's not a look, it's a philosophy of living.
     The first face you're... well... faced with is that of a twenty-something, beautiful blonde vampire, wearing a yellow shirt over brown suede. Barefoot and looking like he just rolled out of bed...
     Or off the sofa...
     Whatever...
     Gold-green eyes look up to the fellow enter. "Bonsoir," he says, exhalation of French. Oh no. A Franc!

     Equally sensitive nosferatu ears hear, or at least get the gist of the conversation behind the solid oak door. Of course the the unmistakable 'Fuck Me' brings a grin to his face. "I could be dying of fucking pneumonia right now!" Hank calls through the door. He's used so many voices throughout the years his accent is all but gone. But it still has that deep commanding quality it carried in life.
     And in all his glory Lord Henry Percy stands on the stoop. Archaic armor covering his body. a sword girded at his hip. Long flowing cloak. The same thing he's been wearing (well mostly) the last thousand years. The only change is the military duffle slung over his shoulder. Of any crazy passer's by only see an ugly hobo in a long black coat with a duffle.
     Hank steps into the foyers and shakes some of the water from himself. The franc is obviously the one he's heretofore only heard called, Edward's childe. The youth of a vampire gets an appraising look and then Hank turns to look at his old friends, "What's this? Is everyone in the twelve getting their own personal Dunross now? Kind of like a tie tac?"

     "At least I know what to do with mine," Edward replies in kind. With the Browning gone, Edward's hands are free. This allows him to wave a single finger at Hank, done from his elbow. "Say that shit to Plantagenet, will you? I'd like to see your wrinkled arse around your head."
     He was going to give a hug. But now? Not in a million years.
     "And don't leave your fuckin' rotwet on my floor!" Edward always has been much too stylish for his own good. "Don't touch that, ami," Edward says lazily, pointing at the water on the floor, "...it probably reads the fuckin' Times."
     Edward's dressed only in a pair of grey sweatpants: the kind he loves to wear to gym. Ah, Palmer's. Before it was burned. Other than that, he's bare-chested and barefooted. Water in his black hair suggests he's recently from the shower.
     "And Christ-on-a-pin...don't you have a closet yet?" A better wardrobe, that is.

     Valan blithely smiled at the comment on Dunross. Liking Ian as he does, he takes it as a compliment and murmurs a 'Merci'. He has an expression on his face, as if to say: Don Quixote is your friend? The armor, the cloak. But he's seen many a thing since entering this world. Hank's wardrobe gets a roll of his shoulders as he closes -- and locks -- the door.
     He sidesteps the water like the reincarnation of Fred Astaire. He smiles, and the sun shines. He leans against the most outward sofa. "Do you want a drink?" he asks, even before he's introduced properly.

     "Ami, Lord Percy. Some call him Hank. I call him...well," Edward smiles wickedly at Hank, "...the second option." Edward laughs, brown eyes brighter now. "I fuckin' kill me," he whispers to himself.
     "Hank...Valan Montague." Not Ian Dunross, thank you. Not even. There's pride said in Valan's name as Edward comes to stand behind the young man. A brow arches, as if to challenge any other possible commentary. "Lord Percy," name said with a foppish air, "...is of a clan we have not discussed much. Maybe he'll enlighten you. And...he's Northumberland's only worthwhile contribution to Planet Earth."
      Well, had to get a compliment in there somewhere.

     "Oh go curl your chest hair pretty boy." Hank says with venom and intensity to match Edward's. If these are what Edward's 'friends' are like are you sure you ever want to meet his enemies? "I am just going to go on the record as saying, that the next time you turn down a job from Villon tell him to ask somebody else."
     That said the duffle that hangs errantly over his shoulder is unslung and held out, "I'm bringing back that ordinance I borrowed from you by the by." He borrowed Ordinance from Edward? When? "You're right about the Heckler Koch firing very smooth."
     A look then to Valan. The creature's toothy-wide mouth spreads in a crooked smile. "No thank you.. I had a bite on the way over. A pleasure to meet you young Master Mongtague. I see the rumors of the effect you've had on our dear Edward is not exaggerated. He's only said Fuck three times since I got here." He re-shoulders the duffle and puts down his hood. Revealing his quite... twisted face.
     "As he says, I am Lord Henry Percy of Northumberland. Or as Edward says.. the second option." He looks up to Edward briefly and flashes a toothy grin, "After all, you always want to go after the basement bargain deal first." A look back to the pretty young vampire, "So you've been told little of my clan? That is a shame. We're quite the fun loving bunch."

     He'll let you both get acquainted. Edward moves around Valan to take the duffle bag as he nods. Of course. While Valan gets used to things, Edward takes the bag and opens it at the sofa's back, inspecting the contents.

     "Pleasure," he says, of the meeting of course. "Hank.." A quick smile. "Have there been rumors, then?" Valan seems delighted by this prospect. "It could not be further from the truth," he crosses his arms against his chest. "My first word of English was 'fuck'...and it is still my principal activity." His English has improved, but the accent is very much the Loire. Touraine, to be exact. William's neighborhood.
     "Little. Most of my experience has been with Ventrue and others like myself." A pause. "I have met many of Edward's friends, however. Each of them... very different from the other. Let me see..." His arms unfold and rest upon the back of the sofa, propping him up as he stands. "There was Girault...William, of course, Davydd.... Alfonso... Georg... Francesco," the Nosferat of Mt. Etna? The one who never comes out of hiding? "...and now, you..."
     You have a lot of blood on your hands, Northumberland...
     A...lot... of blood...
     "I need a drink," he notes to the room at large, if neither of you will join him. He lazily moves around the sofa to the wetbar. Oh and a cigarette too.

     "I'll take one," Edward says distractedly, looking at the Heckler-Koch in the bag. He reaches in to retrieve it, checking it out. "How is Villon?" he asks, lifting the gun into the open. "I haven't talked to him in weeks!"
     This smile is genuine.
     "Does he miss me?" Of course, he does.
     A flash to Hank. "Keep it if you want, eh." The gun is lowered and put back into the bag.

     We all have a lot of blood on our hands. We've started and ended wars. Some for a cause... others for a whim. "I'm sure he does. But then we have never liked each other. I offend the sensibilities of his Toreawhore allies." Some ancient vampires are forever lost in an age that they cannot have back no matter how hard they try. Others embrace the modern world, in comfort, parlance and expletives with open arms.
     "If I did not know better I would think he wanted whoever he sent on this mission to die. Is he mad at you about something?" Hank doesn't really offer anymore than that. Instead he looks to young Valan again. "Well are not laking in enthusiasms it helps to keep immortality from dragging." There is some surprise in his expression that you managed to meet with Francesco of all people. Hank's not seen him in a century or so.
     "Oh I don't need the gun. I've picked two like it on my way back."

     Edward nods, zipping up the bag. It lands on the floor with a resounding *thud*.
     "He's not mad at me. He's just an abusive bastard," Edward notes evenly. It's just the truth. He sighs and moves around the sofa to sit on its arm, as Valan did only moments ago.
     The bit about Francisco gets Edward. "Yeah, speaking of Francesco...did we mention that he came here? Scary, no?" They have been together a few years now. Edward leans back, his hands behind him.
     "Francesco was impressed with Monsieur Montague. He didn't even try to kill Valan, after what ami said..."

     "Francesco is ill-mannered. But then... I suppose manners have always been in short supply in Sicily..." He trips that off his tongue like his a century or two old, not the three he has in the bag. Valan pours two bourbon. Whiskey the drink of choice some nights. He glances over to Hank, then looks at Edward.
     "Did you ever speak to William as he wanted you to?" A smirk and he looks to Hank. "I do not know much, still, about the politics of this life... but I can say I do not like people bad-mouthing my friends. It is a simple thing. Be polite. It is all I ask. You do not have to bathe, but be courteous..."
     That mouth, mon Dieu...
     Valan appears with two bourbons, a little ice. "Here you are, ami," he says to Edward, voice full of warmth and affection. He then crosses over to take a seat.

     "There he is, in action." Edward grins, taking the drink as he watches Valan go past. Not a bad view.
     Edward looks up to Hank, as if to say, 'He's a Brujah, what do you expect?' "Talks real shite...and his ears are rapidly drying..."
     But Edward goes quiet again, drink tilted to his lips. It's Valan's story to tell, not his.

     "I used to say that about my fair Gretta... I hated to see her go.. but I loved to watch her leave." In response to Edward speaking of his child in action. Slowly the Nosferatu turns from here he stands in the center of the room to a solid chair. It looks quite comfortable... and perhaps even expensive. "Well Francesco was always a bit thin skinned. Something I imagine also comes of his sicilian heritage."
     Reaching into the folds of his cloak, Hank produces a neatly folded clear tarp. Do all Nosferatu carry those damn things? The tarp snaps loudly as the Nosferatu shakes it open and turns to drape it over the chair so he might sit, "I hope you both don't mind. I'm an wet and tired old man and I could use a good sit. So then young Master Montague... what this altercation between you and the old man from the mountain, Since he'll never tell me of it himself."
     Hank settles into the tarp covered chair and smiles. "Ahhh.. That is much better."

     "Oh, sorry, Hank," Edward says. "I expected you to take a sit-down whenever." Drink in hand, Edward moves around to sit on the arm of Valan's chair, so that he can have a good view of the welcome guest. Edward looks askance to Valan, waiting on the story.

     Montague relaxes back, he sips his bourbon, he smiles blithely and gives a gesture to the chair. Sit! Sit! European hospitality. Were he not so tired -- not that he'll regale you with that story -- he would have insisted much earlier. "Ah..." he shrugs, mouth twisting. "He came over specifically to yell at Edward about William. Something about Tours and Poitiers. William did not seek his counsel or ask his advice. I was polite -- I did not ask him flat-out if he had read his history books -- but anyway..." To make a long story short, "... he kept pushing, so I ... made my feelings known. I did not like him behaving that way in my house. I do not care if I am only two or three," in vampire years. "Rude is rude..."
     He sips his bourbon...
     "I said the same thing to Edward's mother... though I was in her house at the time. Still... rude is rude..."
     The gonads on this childe. One might well imagine that if he weighs 185lbs, 175 of it is pure gonad. It's a wonder he can walk.
     Valan rolls his shoulders slightly, neither story mattering much to him anymore, and he smiles. "I did have a problem early... with going out at night and opening my mouth. One bloody nose cured that phase. I may be mouthy, but I am not -random-..." He lifts his bourbon in a sort of toast then sips and looks to Edward.

     There is a blink from Hank as he looks to Edward. "What.. did William do something with Poitiers and Tours... that I'm not a aware of?" He looks back to Valan and says, "I have to admit I'm not always very up on the political structure and the 'who owns what' games so many vampires like to play. I guess in boredom they resort to playing human chess.. but it has always seemed so.... trite to me."
     Hank shifts on the chair a bit and eventually grumbles as he tries to get comfortable. "Francesco always got so passionate about such things... He used to measure his worth in being the power behind the throne, like the vizier that hides in the shadows but holds all the strings. Think of that whole ordeal as one of your first lessons. The boredom of unlife is maddening to some of us.. and they will go to great lengths to escape it. Starting wars and stocking up holdings from around the world and keeping them like ant Farms. I've been blessed with friends that put little stock in such things like William..."
     He finally is able to find comfort in the chair. ungirding his sword from his hip and leaning it against a nearby patch of wall. The funny thing is he wears that for the image. He actually uses it sparingly, if ever. "In that regard you are cut from good cloth. You are blessed with a sire that I think will never grow desensitized to the little pleasures of life, A fine ass beating, a stiff drink and a good lay." Ridged brows crease as Hank considers that, "Or is that a stiff lay and a good drink? I'm never quite sure."

     "Lays are for wankers. A good, hard tumble is more like it." Daughters (and apparently now, sons) beware. Edward takes another drink from his short glass, rather content for the moment. "And stop it. I'm gonna sob."
     Edward goes quiet again. Sometimes, it's nice to hear another perspective on the universe.
     "Oh. And about William," Edward remembers, "...the friend who is blessedly not interested in war or stocking up holdings from around the world?" That bastard? Edward waves his glass, looking into it as it swirls, "He gave up Tours and Poitiers. Left them to their own devices after...oh what...seven centuries? Oh, no, Will is blessedly, wonderfully..." Edward dramatizes, "...not into keeping score or possessions."
     "Shit rolls downhill, of course. Dogs with a piece of meat in the dirt. D'Avignon got Poitiers. Raymond Marsillet," a Toreador, "...is now Tours." Edward snorts, shaking his head. "Will's wonderful like that. So not into having his toys," Edward smiles.

     Valan only smiled at the notion of what Edward prefers. Stiff lays, or drinks. Several times tonight, in fact. Is that a shit-eating grin? He says nothing more of Francesco. He stands by his earlier statements. It's not like it's a hard enmity. He simply didn't like him.
     "At three years, I am not even going to speak to how to fill immortal time. As it is, I am just on a lengthy vacation, yes? I will see you in a century, and then maybe I will have something to say..." He finishes his bourbon and looks to Edward. "Would you like another drink, ami?" He rises. Yes, he is going to pour another.
     At discussion of William, Valan looks between you both. "I did not read about him in class, but I did have to take classes on his familie. And this surprises either of you?" Valan laughs. "His family are the great villains of France. Cue the dastardly music, it is time to talk about the counts of Anjou. So, the man likes power... he likes men... he likes his toys. If he can do it and do it well, so be it. I like my toys too... they just happen to be..." He grins. "Different...not so flashy..."

     "I'm just glad that historical I'm one of those 'obscure figures that may be no more than folklore.' at best. If I found myself in some history book I think I would likely vomit." He blehs, "And my point about William is that to him his toys are just that, toys. I don't think he measures his worth in them..." and settles back in his chair and against reaches into the folds of his cloak to produce a leather pouch holding both an old pipe.. and a tin of tobacco.
     "Obscurity is a blessing, kiddo. Enjoy it.. and enjoy your life." While the name of Lord Henry Percy is as well known throughout Kindred circles as anyone, those that would know him at a glance are only a handful of creatures. He pinches some tobacco from the tin with long clawed fingers and packs it into his pipe. Looking over to Edward then he asks, "Do you mind?" Holding up the pipe.

     Edward shakes his head negatively to Hank. There's a look over for another drink, "Yes, ami."
     "I don't want to talk about Biggus Angevinus. I'm far more interested," Edward sits up, "...in what brings you here. Don't tell me it's just to wag on Villon, eh? Or to give ami..." Edward smirks, "...good advice. Though, I don't how he's going to stay obscure..."

     Edward's glass is plucked out of his hands and taken to the bar. There follows the clinking of ice and the bubbling up of soft, male laughter, rising deeply from the gut. Biggus Angevinus. That was good, ami. You slay me.
     "Of course, Hank... I am about to light up myself... so... smoke away. You get no arguments in the house of Francs," Yes, Edward, you are French.
     He is quiet as he pours, but his smile says it all. Obscure. I do not think that is in my future. "I do not either, ami... I have tried..." Oh, sure. "But," a sigh falls as he brings himself back to Edward, drinks in hand, "... I am not a natural." And then he grins. "Here, ami..."

     "What's this? I need a reason to visit my friends now. You and Davydd." Hank says with a shake of the head. He fishes a small box of matches from yet another fold in the cloak. How does he hold every thing in there? "Every time I come to visit you both act like I'm dragging a plague of locust in my wake or something equally disastrous."
      Tearing off one of the matches and striking it, Hank quickly lights the tobacco in his pipe. A few puffs turn the dried and crushed leaves into red embers and with a exhale tendrils of smoke rise up around his face. "However this time... I guess I do have business.. though it's probably nothing."
     Hank again with draws something from within his cloak. he must've sewn a lot of pockets into that think. He produces a heavy brass cross on a chain. Looks like a Templar's cross. "This look at all familiar to you."

     Edward accepts the glass from Valan with a soft, "Merci, ami." At the presentation of the cross, Edward narrows his gaze, then leans forward. "Didn't know you were into archaeology. Templar Cross," he shrugs. "My time frame, I guess." He shakes his head, not really getting the significance of it. "D'Avignon might know better. What's the problem?" he asks directly.

     Valan settles back in the chair, sipping the bourbon. He reaches a hand to Edward, letting it land on a thigh. Gold-green eyes light upon the object, but he says nothing. He sips the whiskey and waits for the mystery to be revealed.
     In the meantime, he gives the knight-at-hand's thigh a pat.

     "Well, the dead body it came off of sure knew a lot about you. He was expecting you in fact to be the one to come and kill him. Seemed to know when and where you were supposed to arrive, the whole lot." Hank draws in another long puff of his pipe. "Whoever it was Villon wanted to send you after, he really had it in for you. Either Villon was in on it or he just made sure to piss off Villon enough that he'd try to send you."
     The Nosferatu shrugs his shoulders and sends a few more tendrils of smoke slithering up into the air. "He had all kinds of intel on you. As if he'd been studying you for a long time. Black and white photos taken of you around London. Shit on Genealogy, family trees. Letters from old friends of yours that apparently never reached you. Whoever he was he had it in for you. I saved what I could find. It's in a file folder in that duffle bag."

     Now the blithe look is gone. Wiped right off the younger Brujah's face. Golden eyebrows draw together, furrowing. Valan quickly turns his head to Edward.

     What? There's an unfamiliar expression on Edward's face -- total astonishment.
     "What th--" he starts, leaping from his seat to grab the duffle bag. "What the fuck?" he finally gets out, shaking the bag to and fro until the file comes out. The bag's tossed aside, and Edward stands, flipping through the folder.
     "Where'd you get this?!" Edward half-demands, extremely agitated at this point. "Who was it? Who was the target?"

     "The target's name was Antonio Velez. Lasombra. He lived in Lima, Peru. He had quite the stronghold." Hank pushes up from his chair and crosses to where Edward flips through his papers. "The story that Villon had that he held to was that he came to Paris and tried to 'replace' his Favorite Tremere interrogator. In theory making it possible for Sabbat to infiltrate anyone they wanted to in the city."
     Hank shakes his head, "I'm sorry I killed him before I could interrogate him. I figured since he seemed to be expecting you...I disguised myself as you to catch him off guard. He was so out of sorts when he found out he wasn't fighting you that I didn't realize how deep this obsession ran until he was dead and I had time to explore his sanctum."

     For once, Valan is speechless. But it's not in the way that he would prefer. An emotion ... an unfamiliar emotion for him... crosses his features. Worry.
     "Could it be connected to... what happened in Spain?" he murmurs. "You and Nasr and Niall..."

     His face says, 'what?' repeatedly. Edward looks between the file and Hank a few times, before glancing, surreptitiously, to see Valan's reaction.
     He finds Valan looking back at him.
     "Don't know the name. Fuck!" Edward yells at the file, shaking it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
     Edward's back straightens, and he looks at Hank. "You alright, then? Did you talk to Villon after you removed...whoever-the-dead-fuck-this-was?"

     A hand comes out, places itself on Edward's leg again. He says nothing else just now. He looks to Hank. Directly.

     "I know people all over Europe and the Americas... So far no one's heard of Antonio Velez. The Nosferatu Antribu in Lima had never heard of him.." Hank nods his head, "When I spoke to Villon upon returning he swears up and down that he only wanted the guy taken care of because he how close he came to slipping in under his nose and letting the Sabbat slip into his city. He says he knows he fled to Lima because of some ritual one of the Tremere bloodmages performed... I think we need to talk to that rite master."
     "No one knows anything of Antonio Velez, all I can tell you for sure is that he did seem to know some of the secrets of the Lasombra.. but he also used a few tricks I've only seen Assimites utilize and knew some blood-magic of his own. Had he not been expecting you and got me he would've been a very hard mark. All I know is that he wore that cross... he wore it upside down."

     "I don't know him," Edward grumbles, tossing the file down on the sofa. "I don't know who we're talking about or what his problem might be." Eyes flicker at Valan again.
     "Are you sure about all this?" Edward asks. "He could have expected me, 'cause yeah, I do work for Villon. And he was smart and prepared. I'd do the same." Why is it a larger conspiracy? "He'd want me gone, if he's making way for some of his mates to go to Paris...." nothing unusual in that.

     He has a thousand questions: What's an Assamite? How can you take on someone else's appearance? How was he in London snapping pictures...how does he know where we live?
     He could go on...
     Valan downs the bourbon, but doesn't rise for another. He looks between you both and rake a hand through his golden hair. Shorn short and meant for a mussed look, him mussing it makes some of it stand on end.
     "An enemy of Villon's or an enemy of yours..." he wonders, he exhales. "Dead now... but... is he one of those that... herd together?" Packs, he means.

     "That's the problem... near as I can tell.. this Velez fellow wasn't doing anything the sabbat knew about." Hank says, "It was more like a bluff to draw you out... I could be worrying to much.. as I said it might be nothing..." Hank shrugs his shoulders, "Something about this whole ordeal isn't sitting right with me..."
     That said he turns back to his chair and collects up his tarp. "Anyway I should go... I will be in town for awhile, just in case you need me or you want to go and.... well talk to a few people.... just let me know."

     Valan rises with another exhale, pushing worry to the back of his mind. "Nice meeting you, Hank..." He doesn't shake his hand or touch him, mind you, but pleased to meet him nonetheless. Valan starts toward the door, to unlock, then open.

     "You're staying here, you know," Edward says, hands on his hips. He'll be pacing the rest of the night. "We've...got room," he notes. "And we'll even..." his hand waves, lackadaisically, "...put you on the opposite hall..."

     "I snore," Valan notes, casually.

     "Don't worry Valan.. during the day I sleep like the dead..." Actually he doesn't but you don't know that. A look back to Edward, "Thanks." And with a nod of his head he moves off to where ever he's directed to stay.

Posted by rowan at September 15, 2003 10:52 PM