There are plenty of things to like about Imperial College, London. First, it's location on the near East End, near Canary Wharf, means that life on campus, oddly enough, remain interesting. A mix of students, local and international, can be found on campus at all times. And being so near Canary Wharf means that media and technology get high focus in the curriculum. In addition, the multistory buildings that house the modern campus mean that there's plenty of space for classrooms and facilities, and the precious near-dockside grass is kept splendid for student sports.
     As a part of the updating of the eighties, no thanks to Mrs. Thatcher, Imperial College managed to acquire an adjacent building and converted it for student services. Coffeerooms and study areas litter a few of the floors, but on others are places for indoor courts and gyms. Squash, racquetball (that strange American fashion) rest next to rooms for meetings and chess, for billiards and fencing, for movies and local bands. It was considered by some an extravagance, but in a confined urban space, students need such outlets. How else would they learn that there is more to life than classrooms.
     It was then that Shelley Jarman decided to return to walks among mortals. A fencer in his first life, he had gone to the darker places to survive. But that was then. After the new student services building was established, Shelley fancied that he could return to the thing he loved. This time, however, he'd have to teach. No competitions. A mere thirty years had passed by then, but Shelley felt he had no choice. He had to give himself meaning.
     And so, he's been the advanced instructor for club fencing. Not blessed with the monies of footy or tennis, club sports are informal groups that meet regularly, compete on circuits as a group, though they pay for everything from pocket or a small gift from the meager budgets of the student services fees (as all other clubs get). The club takes care of itself, trying to advance, have fun, and for those who think of lives as professionals, the small cachet of being on a competing team. It's the best Imperial can do.
     Several of his students had gone on to greener pastures, which delights Shelley much. His pay is small (he's just lay staff, not like the professors or lecturers in departments), but alright. He's managed a little in his short life, and the Toreador see to him anyway. His apartments are free at one of the Toreador havens, and food? Well, he manages.
     As usual, in the evenings, he can be found on the fourth floor of the student services building. There's formal routine days for beginners through wannabe-professionals and then there are open practice times.

     It's been a scant three or four years, but it seems like lifetimes ago. Time's funny that way. Before he met Edward, Valan Montague was in the second circle, competitive in France, a student of the Academie Francais. He trained, he studied -- it was as close to having a job as he had had. He had flirted with the idea of pushing himself toward the first circle, the Olympic trials. But then he went out with Astrid one night to a new club they called L'Empereur, even though it's true name was The Emperor's Mistress.
     Dieu, it seems like lifetimes ago...
     It's been a while now since he stepped onto the scene here. When he first came in, his English was atrocious, his blood was new, but he was good, very good. Good with epee. Better with saber. Edward Meurelle's childe...
     It's been what... has it been two years now?... since he first stepped through the doors that night, coming to practice, to teach himself again, to re-learn with new speed, with new abilities the old skills he cherished. Finally, joining as an instructor -- but not for the money. No, Valan Montague was here for love. It is clear in his eyes when he is here. In how he teaches. He is here for the love of it. His one night per week became two, then three.
     A new Brujah for a new London. Control, finesse, subtlety and grace...
     And there he is again, Valan Montague, in his whites, a red leather bag slug across one shoulder and his chest, holding within it gloves, one Italian epee and one Italian saber. Gold haired, amber-eyed Montague. Tonight he is not here to teach. Tonight, he is here to learn.

     "So, hey," Shelley smiles, standing in well-worn whites. He turns about before you became visible. Toreadors are that way. Eyes at the back of their heads, hearing when all is silent. "How are you?" he asks, standing near a table. Opposite side of the room, along the wall, a pair of students are finishing. Most depart by ten or so, glad to go study, sleep, pub, or find the best club.
     Shelley smiles, putting down an epee. "Walking the streets?" His blonde hair his long and wispy, a retro style from the sixties or earlier. Almost feathered. Standing almost six-feet, Shelley appears in his late-thirties, but from conversation, he's closer to seventy. English, but of a time when, well, life was changing quickly in Britain.

     Valan Montague is still... so new. He has that new vampire glow. It is like the new car smell, ne c'est pas? Twenty-six mortal years, only nearly four immortal. Egads, that would make him the big 3-0.
     With a long way to go...
     The bag is set upon the table and Valan smiles, gold-green eyes shiny -- not as glassy as they were a day ago, thank the lord and for sobriety. "Hey, and good...bon," he says. His English, while not flawless, is rather polished -- especially considering with whom he spends most of his time. Amazing, no, that he is not dropping 'fuck' on the downbeat of every other word. "Has it been a busy night?" He looks around. It's not now! "I meant to come earlier, but I could not get away..."
     I wouldn't have wanted to even if I could, but I'm not going to go into that...
     "Are you heading out yourself or were you going to stay for a while? Anyone coming by?" As immortals tend to do after hours, to fence with one another. There is a club of them as well. Valan is the youngest of them all in pure years...

     "No, mate," in Shelley's familiar Oxfordshire accent comes, "...I'm staying." Of course, you're here for more than students. "Others will be in a bit, I guess." There's the before-supper club and the after-supper club. Either way, due to university policy, the building will be summarily locked around 2 am, for security's sake. "And it's not too busy," he adds, "...a few kids. Closer to weekend, you know..." he grins, leaning back against his table.

     Montague nods and Montague smiles. It is a careless, carefree slant. "Then we will go whenever you are ready..." He himself appears to be in no great hurry, the tone of his voice quiet and assuming of the inevitable. One mat, two swords, Montague and Shelley. So far, the older hand (that'd be Shelley's) still has the upper hand, and newness has begun to peel away from him, like the discarded husk of a germinating seed. Put him in the ground, poor blood upon the earth and up springs the Brujah like the legends of Mars.
     "Have you seen the girl, Juliana duPriest?" Of all of the students, the most gifted, scholastically as much as athletically. "...Only sixteen, and she is already as good as I. If she is not in trials in two to three years, I will be very surprised." And disappointed, strangely. "There is a part of me that wishes all trials were held at night..." he whispers. He grins. Exploding into ash is the only thing keeping him from it.
     But then Valan shrugs, folding his arms against his chest and smiling. Beautiful. Brushed gold.

     "I'd be surprised too," Shelley comments, apparently in no rush to pick up a sword. He continues to lean back against the table. "And I'm the same," Shelley confesses with a grin, "I wish trials were at night too." He shrugs, expression slightly wistful. "Everyone wishes everything they want to do, was at night." It's an offering of sympathy and solidarity. It's one of the million tiny hells of this existence.
     "So, is there anything you specifically wanted to do?" Shelley asks, hands behind him, anchored to the table.

     It is good to know that I am not alone. I am not alone in wanting what I cannot have. But then, we were once human, too. Isn't it still our nature? "More of Valan wanting, as they say, the cake and eating it, too." The wish for night trials is summarily set aside. He does not dwell, this Montague.
     "I have been working on that technique of yours," one of the several that you, as his teacher, have shown him since his debut in London. "I have a few very set in and bad habits. The Academie Way," their style, it is ingrained in him. But you, from an older style, perhaps yours is as ingrained, but it is new to him. Minute movements done flutter-quick, a turn of the wrist at the right moment and tah-dah. Or at the wrong moment, and the epee would go clattering on the floor. "If you are in the mood to cover it, I am open to it. I had no specific plans," he never does, apart from his instruction, and even then... Montague is a creature of The Moment.
     The Moment is All...

     Shelley waves off. "I have my own habits, as you have well exposed," he smiles. He turns about and picks up one of his, something well-handled. "Let's try it again then," Shelley says, padding over to the second mat. The two students who were finishing up do so, and are standing near their mat, chatting.
     "I didn't see you at Charles' party," Shelley says, bringing up a random topic. He'll talk until he has to really work at something. "I'd planned on introducing you to Richard and Estelle," a couple of Toreador of his ancilla rank, albeit young ancilla.

     Valan moves after you, turning the red leather satchel, unzipping it and removing a well-used 21st century epee. "I need to get a PDA," so says the 21st Century man. "I cannot keep track with the nights." It is particularly hard to do if you never leave your bed. "I am sorry I missed it. I don't like missing parties. I would be happy to meet Richard and Estelle in another venue, as well..." I should probably get out more...just to see what more of ...Us are like...
     Epee tucked under his arm, Valan begins fishing out his gloves as he strolls to the mat. "I heard of a possible ...gathering," such a term. Another term would be rave. "... at some undisclosed location near the South Bank." Valan smirks. "It has a shroud of mystery," his hands wiggle and then he takes the epee in his grasp. "Or so that is how it was mentioned to me... by... what is his name, the one refers to himself as the... Fucking Fop?" A pause and then he gestures, "...Rory." A Ventrue, that one. A former 'Fop' of the first order. Real Rob Roy type stuff.

     There's a nod as Shelley steps on the mat, "No mystery though. The old Masterson's livery," Shelley informs. "At least you got the information from the source," he chuckles. "I'm sure we can tie it there with Richard and Estelle. I think you may like them okay." Which is more than he says about most out there. He spends most of his time with his own and a few rare out-of-clan friends, like you. There was only a smile about Rory's other name.
     "Alright," Shelley exhales, looking to you as he pulls at his gloves.

     A nod from Montague, "I'll be there..." Dieu, wouldn't it be a scream if Edward came along. He'd never do it. I can see the face now: gah, fuck no. I can hear it, and it makes me chuckle.
     He springs up in place once, twice, rolls his shoulders and slices the air with the dull edges of the epee. Really and truly, you are my first undead associate. I cannot count Edward's pack of friends, varied and sundry as they are, as my own principally. They are and always will be Edward's first. That they like me is a bonus...
     You pull on your gloves, Valan takes his place...

Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 01:43 AM