"Now look what you've done!" Edward says loudly, rolling his eyes. He looks at his jacket, the tear at the pocket evident. "Bloody fucker," he spits, hand wiping at his mouth. The back of his hand smears crimson, causing Edward to groan softly.
     His tongue slowly drags along his bottom lip, slipping within once more.
     "I don't want to play it this way, lads, but you're bein' right wankers about this," he says, lifting a hand and his index finger in a warning fashion. "She's gone an' we're done. Say goodnight and be on your way."

     The three young men - a willowy blonde, lean with scarred cheeks; a black-haired young man, stocky build; and another black-haired one, tall and wearing an Arsenal jersey - stand on the docks with Edward, the blonde tapping a crowbar.
     "Fuck you, you fuckin' tosser, twas no business o' yers an' you shoulda kept yer trapper shut," says the dark-haired one, in jeans and boots.
     "You shoulda been on your way!" says the blonde, crowbar twisting his hand. Apparently he disagrees with Edward's assessment.
     "Look at him," the last one laughs, talking to his friends, "...dressed like shining shite."
      This causes some laughter.
     "But shite is still shite. And when it's on the road, it get run over."

     Suddenly, Edward cocks his head at the three, not responding. His nose lifts a little, as if he's sniffing something. His brown eyes eventually stare at the tall blonde with the crowbar.

     This is better than fucking Wimbeldon...
      Who needs the starched whites and temper tantrums (or is that tantra?) of the elite when you can watch the shite of London rising up out of The Thames to beat one another silly with fucking crowbars...
     Oh, wait a minute... that's Edward...
     Overhead, a dark bird circles -- one of the Tower's Inhabitants appears to have freed himself, look ho, London! -- and plops down with a great vocal racket behind the three would-be bruisers. The ones what have the crowbar, not that other bruiser in the posh bit of tailoring.
     When he opens his black beak and caws, one could almost swear on a stack of bloody Bibles that he was shouting: Wankah! Wankah!

     The dark bird's ignored for the moment - as there are millions of such along the river - and Edward turns his gaze from the blonde to the other two.
     "Don't let the likes of your...cousin," word said skeptically, "...get you fucked here, lads. I'm suggestin' you leave now." Evenly expressed, as is his stare at the two darker ones. "Go home."

     The two darker haired ones grin and then laugh, which causes the blonde to laugh as well, if late.
     "No, we think it's you," sounding more like 'yoo', "...who need t' be worr'd mate. Come on, boys..." calls the short dark one, stepping forward in the posh one's direction. Confidence exudes -- and why not?

     The blonde is the last to step forward, casting a glance at his companions. But he follows behind them, closing the distance.

     "Oh, come on!" Edward shouts, seemingly at the blonde. His voice yells forcefully, directed above the pair approaching him. It's as if he's suggesting the blonde stop what's happening. Or something.

     But nothing changes. Twenty feet becomes fifteen. Fifteen becomes ten....

     Yeah, it's too late at night to be out at the docks at this hour, especially if you're female, but that doesn't stop this one. A black tote tossed haphazardly over her shoulder could be carrying anything from a bomb to knitting supplies, but either way, she hangs onto it possessively.
     This pretty little thing looks like she can handle herself... mostly. Or at least, that's the air she gives off....or tries to. Combat boots and torn leotards lead up to a mini-kilt and a t-shirt that says, "Fuck the Queen!", all barely hidden beneath a long black duster of sorts.
     Her steady footfalls come closer and closer... and then stop abruptly. Looking up from the ground below her, she realizes she has just about walked into the middle of something. Quickly assessing the situation, she hollars, "Oi!" She's looking directly at the better dressed of the group who seems to be egging on a group of blokes ready to go to battle. "You need the cops?" Already, she's starting to edge back just a little... just in case.

     There's a shrill whistle, like only those who've been in crowded battle can master. The kind of "attention getter" that can make a forest shiver or a whole company of men with better tools than crowbars (though, nothing against the crowbar, it'd be handy in battle) to turn about.
     "Three against one! Edward, quit toying with them. Give them a sporting chance. Lay down or sommat," comes the rumble of the Cymri's voice. Black leather coat were inky black wings. A black turtleneck and trousers the other accouterment of a Tower raven. All that darkness, capped with a bronze-copper-fiery haired head.
     His grin is interrupted by a young girl talking about the cops. "You have a phone. Feel free to call an ambulance for Sister Mary and her two flying nancy nuns. They'll be needing it in a moment, sweetheart..."

     Shite. Not someone else. The posh one looks over, then looks back at the three.

     The blonde doesn't seem to care much on what's being said by the nicely dressed, but bleeding, one. He grins and comes to a halt, waiting for the first two to take their shots. Then, it'll be a free-for-all. Eyes look up at the girl yelling, and he says, "Shove off! Unless you want some too?" he suddenly smiles, large hand grabbing his crotch in her direction. "We'll be ready after..." the blonde leers, crowbar up in his non-filled hand.

     The other two stop and laugh loudly.

     "It'll make up for what this arsehole did earlier," the short dark one says, motioning at Edward.

      Wait, where'd that other come from?
     The tall dark one narrows his gaze at the Welsh timber. The two at the front are momentarily confused, frowning in Davydd's direction. "What the--" says the tall dark one, twisting to see what the blonde wants to do. It's gotten a little busier down here at water's level, below the Strand's planking.

     Edward smirks, not changing his stare at the three. A familiar voice.
     "Give a few minutes, eh, afore callin' the bobbies?" Edward murmurs in the direction of the female voice. "But you...should go..." he suggests anyway to her. Apparently, the posh one's not that worried.
     Though he continues to stare at the blonde.

     The blonde doesn't seem too fazed by the other man's arrival. He blinks at Davydd, then sniffs the air. "Well, well," he eventually smiles, "...noncin' fairy..."

     Wha--?? Where the fuck did the towering inferno come from? The girl seems as shocked as the others when he shows up out of nowhere. Blinking at him, she nods once, stammering, "Um, yeah... yeah, I've got a phone..."
     Then she hears the jeers from the 'opposing team' and glances up just in time to get the meaning of their little 'invite'. "Go fuck yerselves, ya shites!" she hollers, obviously not caring that there's three against two now. Look at the size of that damned redhead, afterall.
     Without another word, she's yanking out her cellphone, dialing...

     "Last chance, lads," Edward says politely, touching his lip again. "Take your bastard dog and go home..."

     "The number's dialed... all I have to do is punch it..." the girl calls out. There. You have some time. Just give the signal.

     The tall dark-haired one gives a smooch in the girl's direction. "More of this later," he offers, squeezing his jeans again. Both dark ones laugh at her, then take more steps towards Edward, picking up the pace and bringing fists back.

     Davydd's nostrils flare, then the Cymri's nose wrinkles. "Ode du wet dog," he drolls out, theatrically under his breath, which is to say clearly audible by all. He doesn't waver, but clearly holds a good line behind them. Noncin' fairy behind them. Old as fuck vampire in front of them. They seem on friendly terms.
     Anyone care to call a bookie?
     The air crackles when he murmurs something that's like Welsh but isn't Welsh. His eyes are on the blonde-haired man wearing the ode du wet dog, but a flicker goes to them what's rushing in. Edward can take care of them without any problem, he expects.
     But even though the green eyes are flickering sharp, flickering despite the darkness, he grins a madcap grin. He's going to enjoy this. Every bloody minute of it.

     The blonde's eyes widen fantastically and he takes a step forward. "I've got your bloody-fuckin'-dog here, you shite, and you're going to fuckin' wish you'd never seen me, you fuckin' bloodsuckin' twatwipe, because I'm going to rip your fuckin' throat out and pick my fuckin'..." why is that a thickening growl, verging on non-English, "...teeth with your broken bones!"

     The girl ignores the taunts of the tall dark-haired thug, keeping her eyes open on as much as she can... She quickly scans around her to make sure she's got an escape route planned, just in case things don't go as she suspects. Then her attention is back to the scene in front of her.

     Well, he's not going to make comment. Edward bellows a scream at the two advancing on him, and reaches up to grab the tall one's fist with his right hand as his left leg extends out and makes a wicked semi-circle to take the feet out from under the shorter one.
     To the world, a dark blur moved.

     The tall one cries out in pain, body fully extended as his fist is caught mid-air above his head. He's forced downward, twisting his arm and wrist to keep up with the moving (and well dressed) body that drops towards the docks' deck and swings a leg that sends the short one into a sprawl on the dock, on his back. In pain.
     And then as fast, the posh one's upright once more, foot on one chest, and his fist twisting another's broken hand behind his back.
     "Now, now," Edward says, his left hand pointing a sizable gun at the tall blonde. The gun shines slightly in the docks' dim light.

     The two dark ones are in considerable pain. The short one, on his back on the dock, wants to clutch his leg or ankle, but it's a little difficult when a foot keeps pressing at your chest each time you move.
     The tall one, now half-twisted as some deformed creature, whimpers, trying to keep still as to avoid wrenching his arm and shoulder blade off.

     "Pick me! Pick me!" Davydd cries out in a hawking laugh, a laugh that sounds quite drunken, quite delighted. His blur ...noticeably different. There was a transformation ...there!... in a split second split in half, a blinking moment when he became the air, the breeze of the Thames, and then himself again, at the blonde's side.
     A chuckle turns the crowbar to a bouquet of flowers...

     What the fuck?? It's all happening so quickly that the poor girl can't seem to make sense of it.
     Her head reeling, she stumbles back a few steps, suddenly frightened, remembering an incident not that long ago when similar moves were used... where her life was threatened... where someone saved her...
      And now there is no doubt in her mind that she is not safe with either group of men. "Shite," she curses on a breath, then spins on her heel to run, jabbing frantically at her cellphone's faceplate.

     The blonde turns to see Davydd standing suddenly beside him and the flowers in his hand. They drop to the ground harmlessly, as he'd taken a push off his foot to run towards the fight, and halted instead at the gun.
     And his features, accompanied by a low growl, are decidedly skewed. His skin puckers and his nose flares widely. Hair stands up at his chin, cheeks and ears, which, by the way, are now pointy.

     "That's more like it," Edward says softer, glancing to where the girl was. Shite.

     The blonde looks at her saying something like, 'veil...'

     "Davy," Edward finally says, addressing his friend. A nod toward the girl...she can't go too far, it's true. Be it a veil issue -- the beginning of the lupus is not so smart -- or a masquerade issue -- Tattinger won't take a thrill to any of it -- she can't go with things as they are.
     Edward nods in the girl's direction, suggesting something left unvocalized.

     The girl known only as Lily runs. She runs as fast as her booted feet can carry her. She does not see the change that overtakes the blonde, as her back is turned, and she is quickly putting some distance between her and the scene behind her.
     Where the hell are you?? her mind screams to an unseen protector even as her physical lungs gasp for air as she sprints off, toward the streets. Glancing down at the cellphone, a number is canceled and another is dialed... no answer. Dammit. She hangs up, frantically dialing the magic number now... to hell with her protector... three numbers come up on her cell. All she needs to do is dial it. Still she runs, even as the green button is pressed...

     Davydd wrinkles his nose. Ew. It's not getting any better looking. Or smelling, Edward-bach. There's a spare glance for the girl. Strangely, Davydd seems rather unconcerned. What's the masquerade to him, the veil. More concerning to you. But so's the the wolf.
     What to do...what to do...
     There's a crackle to the air, makes the hair stand on end (and the wolf has a lot of that at the moment), and then the wolf is frozen stiff. "Wait a tick," Davydd rumbles. He gives the stone statue of a wolf a slap on the back, then wags a finger at Edward, "Don't do anything funny while I'm gone. I don't want to miss it."
     With a cocked grin, he becomes light as air again, borne by it. The raven launches with a bit of an ungainly hop and bounds into the air.
     Now, this is particularly interesting for the wolf, as thus far it's only his nature what's really been ...revealed. That won't look good on the telly...

     "Oh, bloody hell, Davy," Edward groans, his eyes flickering to the two in pain beneath him. "Now we've got three instead of just one! Christ, I did have a gun pointed at him! With silver, you know!" Edward yells to the air, apparently, or to himself.
     "Christ."

     "Yeah... police... down at the docks... some kind of scuffle..." the girl gasps into the phone, but that's all she gets out. She's too out of breath. And so, the call is ended and the cellphone is deposited in her bag as she rounds a corner. The muscles in her legs feel like they're on fire from the effort, but she keeps on going... and plans on doing so until she makes it home.

     But then he'd miss out on all the action...
     Have a sense of humor! That's your problem you know, you don't know how to laugh...
     He circles a moment or two, trying to catch sight of where she was last seen. But it's no good now. She's off, it seems. The raven sounds out, but buildings are in the way.
     So many alleys...
     So little time...
     There's a flicker of black upon stone as the raven lands. He thinks to let fly with the usual things birds let fly with, but he doesn't. Instead he pecks at the stone and then hops down.
     He lands and gathers his jacket to him. "Lost her," he waves at the statue and the statue becomes Itself again. Smelly as new. "Look, lads... game is up and over. You've let a little tyke steal in on your fun and now it's all pucked, pun intended." Smirking, "I'll see what I can do..." he sighs theatrical, tossing pound notes onto the dock. "Ten on the bloodsucker..."
     You better shoot and high tail it. Or just high tail it, Edward-bach. She's probably called the bobbies by now...

     There's no plans for a fight. Not with a wolf now. No way. No time.
     Edward's gun remains pointed at the wolf. It all looks much like before, right? "Look," he explains, "...your kin need help here." Being mortals. "And, well, you'd better check to see if you've broken your ever-blessed-fuckin' Veil. Cause she's runnin', laddie, and it's your face and hairy ears she'll remember."
     "Oh, yes, and it's silver." Edward waves the barrel of his gun randomly in the air. "So, your call."

     The blonde looks at Davydd, who's not quite in the same exact angle anymore, and then to the two still anchored to the large, posh one. Then a glance down the docks: the girl is gone. Weird.
      "Come on!" he yells to the two, clearly slacking in their pain and entrapment, making a choice on the situation.

     Davydd bends, collecting his pounds, shaking the foul water off of them and wrinkling his nose as he puts them back in his wallet. "I never liked Old Yeller," he turns to Edward, still brandishing the gun -- smart man -- until Old Yeller and his two pups are out of sight, "...we should go somewhere. That was almost bloody marvelous. And fancy that, a chance meeting on the docks, you facing impossible odds. I could just sing..."
     Davydd exhales then rubs his head. "I could use a bit to eat and drink. First things first, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Much. She may marvel at your kung fu stylings, but I'm not sure there was anything overtly ... fancy? about it..." Fancy = supernatural.
     "And she split before she could see the cool sleight of hand. I thought the flowers were a nice touch..."

     The two are released, but their pain remains intense. The tall one grabs at his elbow as he tries to bend his arm inward. He reaches for the short one, who is having a hard time hobbling away.
     The blonde? He inched by carefully, as the gun followed a full 180 degrees, then he headed off, leaving the two to limp along in great states of pain in a futile effort to keep him in sight.

     What?
     Edward lowers the gun, arms slack at his sides. "You think?" he quips, shaking his head. "I don't know, Davy. I mean, sure, she didn't see it, but those other two did," Edward motions.
     "A fucking breech. That's all I need right now. We may need to find her, Davy," Edward says, not prepared to let this go. "Sorry, mate, I do live here and I don't need to give anyone any cause to help me pack."
     "They were right here, Davy, and could see what you did..."

     "I shall do my best," Davydd says with a nod. "I'm not so much worried about frick and frack, to be honest. They missed the flower trick when they were lying in abject terror and incredible pain face first in the docks, but," hands come up, not going to argue semantics, "...we will deal with it. I'll even take the blame. I'm big like that. So, I better go before her trail gets cold. And you better get out of here... let your trail go cold, too."

     And there's the sound of sirens, more or less right on time...

     "Thanks, Davy," Edward murmurs. And he can't go home immediately now. "Lookit -- I'll meet you...near Palmer's, eh? Say," he glances at his watch as he reholsters the gun, "...in an hour? You look, I'll...stay outta the hand of the Met. We're to head to Schweiz tomorrow," Edward laments. There'd be problems in postponing. "So...tonight, Davy." We have to find her and make sure.

     He hears you, he must. Davydd turns about, eyes giving scan to the street, the buildings. There's a glance for the sound of sirens, but he doesn't seem overly rushed or concerned. He looks to the sky, the fog, the wind.
     I am looking for a girl...
      She ran this way ...
     A glance back to you and Davydd nods, "Palmer's. One hour." And the raven's in the streets again. Better to have a bird's eye view for these sort of things. Maybe he'll see her. Maybe the air will be cooperative. Maybe the fog will be talkative. The concrete is naturally chatty with the constant London traffic.
     Suddenly seeking Lily...

Posted by rowan at January 05, 2004 10:31 PM