Cigarette and cigar smoke hover like the fog rolling in from the nearby Thames. Black Jack Davy's, smack in the midst of The Strand, is enjoying another busy evening. But it's not a 'play night', no live music, so there's not the throng that comes with that, pressed in like fish in a tin. Rather, there's simply full tables, a mostly full bar, TVs on round the bend and conversation in full swing.
"Need a refresh?" Heather Glynnys, one of Davy's Girls, is paused at a booth containing a very large, very dark-headed, rather continental looking gentleman, dressed all in layers of cocoa brown. She's picking up the empty, leaning toward him with the Davy Girl trademark smile. Complete with Welsh dimples.
Her perfume washes over him in a wave, backed by the sound of her heart, the sigh of her skin, the lifting of the white-blonde hairs, the very fine hairs along the skin of her neck. No one else would see them but him. Those fine hairs would go unnoticed by every other man and woman in the room. They miss the golden trail they make straight to her cleavage, like the yellow brick road. Michelangelic face turns up from the paper. Large hands set the cigarette aside. And indigo eyes are helpless to do anything but flicker at the trail, where it leads and in mere seconds he is looking at her face.
William smiles. "At least one more," his accenting is precise, British. Therefore he must be foreign. He certainly looks it. "No Davydd tonight?"
Heather Glynnys smiles. Unbeknownst to her she also blushes. Unconsciously her body leans in and she laughs lightly. "Not tonight, no. Sadly. I like music nights." For her, every moment with William seems to pass in slow motion. Maybe it's just wishful thinking.
William smiles, the smile is smooth but broad, warm in easy humor. A warmth that issues over the whole of his expression. "Maybe next time, then." Maybe, Heather. Maybe.
"I'll go fetch the drink. Let me know if you need anything else," Heather offers.
The tall man in the booth smiles to her. Of course, he says. You'll be the first one I call.
She steps in first, a woman pulled from some far off warmer country and dropped -- like so many others -- into the heart of London. Her smirk speaks her amusement over how she stands out in this place; slight, fragile, so thoroughly female. Her right arm goes out behind her, holding the hand of another whom she drags into the pub. The man she pulls into the pub seems not so much reluctant as apathetic.
"You will enjoy it here, Ephraim." Her voice is soft, though it carries. Almost maternal in tone. "Get something to drink, relax. You need it." He does, for he willed himself to sleep the entire voyage over. Four weeks of such is draining upon re-awakening.
They must be related. Their hair is the same colour of pitch black -- his to his shoulders in falling curls, while hers falls feet further -- as are their eyes. The middle east is on her features far more than on his, so they cannot be siblings. Cousins?
"If you insist, my love." Rote response, repeated merely because it had to be, not because of any feeling behind it. The asymmetry of his facial hair draws attention. The white eyebrow, and half-white goatee looks unnatural, and yet they don't look artificial either.
She is so much more observant than he, and yet she is so much less real. Keen eyes, supernatural sight, see her for what she is: nothing but wisps of colour dancing in the air. Yet she is as real as anything else in this place, as far as anyone else is concerned.
Alayshah pulls Ephraim towards a booth her graceful movements juxtaposed against his slight stumbling; drunk-like wavering. It is the booth next along from William's. The only unoccupied place, mostly for its cramped position and poor view of the room. "Sit, here." Alayshah murmurs as she deposits Ephraim into it, and then takes her place opposite.
You'd almost expect her to say "stay" as well.
The entrance was not marked at the door -- though he can see the door, he was paying more attention to the departure of Heather Glynnys -- but as the two approach his booth. To him, they appear simply as a couple. Exotic, yes -- but London is home to many nations these nights. The fellow odd-looking, perhaps -- but no more odd than what one might see on Oxford Circus come two-in-the-morning.
It is not for each specific part of them, however unusual or odd, not even the "drunken master" stride of the strange-bearded man. Rather, it is for the culmination of their appearance individually and together that he finds them... unusually unusual. Not the random Londoners out for a drink.
But then, neither is he...
There is nothing superficially odd about him. He is huge, but seemingly unassuming. He's having a beer -- a Guinness to be exact, as his refresh arrives. There is, however, a ... feeling in the air around him. A prince among men and women? Among mortals. And around him are the bees drawn in toward his particular brand of honey. The tables and booths in his immediate proximity are filled with the best looking people in here, with the bruising ballers in the other part of the pub. The irony is he has far more in common with the bruisers, no matter how handsome the exterior.
Where he looks, bodies seek to capture his attention. A woman lifts her hand, unconsciously tucking her hair behind her ears. A young man takes a moment to survey the room, looking over his shoulders. Waitresses hover, sometimes leaving things behind at the tables and having to return. A certain clumsiness even abounds from time to time as they become uncharacteristically flustered.
William doesn't stare at it but he watches it all the same. And he smiles at it, corners of his mouth upturning. He seems to be enjoying his smoke, his Guinness. Maybe he's waiting on someone for he sits alone.
Now that is strange...
Indigo eyes glance over to the pair as they sit, but his attention does not linger to overstay its welcome. But they, too, are now a part of his landscape. And an interesting part at that.
He doesn't seem to be paying attention, really. Ephraim's eyes seem to be looking more inward than anything else. "Why here? There is nothing here but drunkards and fools." His voice rises at length, "And the only company are the cattle crowded into the stall for slaughter."
Alayshah's laughter comes in response, refined on every note. She seems so perfect, so crafted. As if someone had intentionally removed all of her flaws. "Now, Ephraim, that isn't polite." Lifting a graceful hand, she catches the attention of the waitress. "When in Rome, after all." This as a quiet aside to her companion, before the waitress arrives.
"Something, for him, to drown the sorrows" She flicks a gesture in Ephraim's direction "-- whatever you recommend. Brandy for myself, might as well bring the bottle." Her smile is sweetness itself.
The waitress pauses for a moment. Brandy. Right. "The usual prescription for sorrow is a snakebite," presumably a drink's name. She smiles. "I'll be right back with your drinks. Bottle of brandy it is, and a Paddy's Snakebite Special." With that, the waitress turns and heads for the bar.
The 'cattle' comment caught his attention and, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette, William smirks in something of agreement. "Fools don't need to drink. They live on a natural high," the voice is an amused baritone, mellifluous in its humor, smooth in its intonation, its accenting precisely British, formal. However informal his body language may be.
Eyes are dark, blue-violet in the light and in the light as he leans they glimmer with something beyond living brightness -- and darkness. This would be visible only to those with knowing eyes to recognize. He doesn't stare. William looks, he smiles, he looks away.
He is American. It shows in his slouch, in his casual speech. His disregard to the world around him. But when William speaks, Ephraim's gaze becomes hawk-like, and his body readies. Expecting William to sprout claws and wings, and to attack.
Which doesn't happen, of course, but you never can be too ready for such things.
"I think fools are just too stupid to realize that they're at the bottom of the food chain." Ephraim's English is as casual as he is, definitely not British, and flat-accented. He doesn't sound like he is particularly from anywhere, really.
"Oh, pish tosh." Such a british-ism that issues from Alayshah's lips. "Everyone has their strengths, even you, Ephraim." She rolls the 'r' in his name, speaking all the letters. Her way of showing endearment for her star childe.
Morose, but funny. Laughter shines within his eyes, echoed only quietly in actual sound. Amusement rides high, and William is looking to them again, Les Exotiques. One eyebrow quirks slightly higher than its twin, but then his expression evens to something more droll.
"If a fool realized he were foolish, he wouldn't be a fool, I do not think."
His eyes are on the woman there. To him, she is as real as everyone else -- well, that is not entirely accurate. She is as real as he is, as real as her partner seems to be. There is consideration for a moment, a smile. "I did not mean to interrupt your conversation," it is offered by way of apology. But the smile lingers. It does not appear that he believes his interruption has been entirely rude, maybe not even unwelcomed.
His interruption is short-lived. As their drinks arrive, he turns his attention back to the room and he watches the room respond to him in a ripple.
The waitress sets down her precariously balanced bottle of brandy and snifter, as well as two glasses of Irish whiskey with a Guinness 'back' in its own pint. "A bottle of Napoleon," the brandy, "... and a dash of St. Paddy. Is there anything else I can do you for?"
Alayshah's left hand instinctually reaches for the brandy, while right goes for the accompanying glass. "No, thank you, cher." Yet another affectation; she doesn't seem the least bit french.
With a sigh, Ephraim raises a stark white eyebrow and looks askance at the offered pint. "Snake bite?" His voice is devoid of energy; it breathes out of him with a lingering heaviness. "I bit a snake once." But his observation does not prevent him from reaching for the drink. "It tasted nasty, like chewing on a dead mouse." All this in that heavy, monotone.
Then, apparently to the man -- though he is still looking at his drink -- Ephraim speaks. "No interruption, really, our conversations tend to be rather. Well. Meaningless." This draws a look from her, somewhat disapproving. She doesn't like being brushed off, even by reference.
"No more interruption than, say, the serving staff. Anyways." Finger enters the drink and stirs, then is licked, producing something between a smile and a grimace. "I don't think this is half bad." Not glowing praise, exactly.
The door opens a few times as people come in and others leave. In a pub, it's a common occurrence. In one of these moments where the door opens, she steps in, pausing briefly to briefly glance about. Ice-blue eyes scan the crowd, pausing on each and everyone for the briefest of moments.
The bar is first scanned, then the tables... and that gaze slips over something that makes the eyes widen a bit. William. I know you. The expression on her face does not change, save for that brief widening of the eyes. It remains cold and impassive, even unimpressed at her surroundings. She takes note of him, then moves her gaze onward to those sitting near him... and once more, her scrutiny lingers a breath longer than the rest in the joint.
Only a few heartbeats after she entered the room, she is in motion again. Slender and leggy, she gets a few looks and even a whistle or two. Her hair gets a few glances...long black locks have been pulled back into a severe ponytail, the colour interrupted by an equally long white streak -- which used to be spiked bangs, back in the 'old days' of New Port.
Dressed smartly in a black skirt suit and stockings, the one known as Scarlet approaches the bar momentarily, apparently asking for their phone.
Nothing else needed for the moment, the waitress blends in with the others of her ilk and patrons alike, slipping into the roar of protest about the futbol game and the cigarette smoke that parts for her and closes around her like silken veils....
William acknowledges the man's words with a glance back, the lifting of the corners of his mouth and a nod. Good then, that's settled. And then there is a focus, a focus that the room itself acknowledges with a certain intensifying timbre. There are two in particular that he is watching: a couple, a man and a woman, the woman has red hair, the man is blonde -- he is watching the man -- the other person is a footballer sitting closer to the door, with dark hair, huge, sitting with his mates.
One of them is going to run into Plantagenet before the night is out...
Indigo eyes were fastened on the footballer near the door when a mirage steps through the door. Those same eyes quickly narrow in an 'It Can't Be' expression. But it is Scarlet. What the hell is she doing here from Oregon...
William glances to the other pair, as if they could confirm something for him, then he's standing, leaving his cigarette burning, waiting for his return. He approaches the bar and the woman who's just come in. Stands to reason. And one of his quarries is lost. The blonde and his date decide to head to another club, one with dancing...
Does Ephraim notice William's departure? It is debatable, really if Ephraim truly notices anything. His eyes seem unfocused at the best of times, as if mental cataracts are blocking his vision. Occasionally he reaches for objects which are not there, only to realize it at the last moment and withdraw.
This happens a few times, before he finally manages to pick up his glass of hellish dark brew -- rings clinking on the glass, and bracelets jingling.
Alayshah, though, is quite another story. She watches with interest as William departs. Her keen eyes what him stand, and watch his gaze move through the room. She watches as his trajectory takes him to the bar.
"Pity, he left." She muses to no one. "I was hoping he would join us. He is so much more interesting than you, Ephraim."
"Yes my love" is all that issues from Ephraim's lips, in response, murmured over the top of the pint.
The waitress is quick to return, smiling to Ephraim and his tablemate as she checks on the tables around them. She only glances to the empty spot that once held William, but the cigarette and Guinness are still there -- he'll be back. Heather will be pleased.
"Everything okay here?" she asks, smiling.
The phone is handed to Scarlet and she dials in a long series of numbers, assuring the bartender that it's a collect call, not on his tab. Her tone is rather curt, but such is her way. "Yes, tell Gabriel that I have arrived. I'll call again in a few days," is all she says before replacing the receiver and pushing the phone back across the bar.
"What can I get for you?" asks the bartender. Scarlet, who seemed not in the slightest bit interested in such things originally, seems to debate something, then replies, "Wine. Red. Your finest." A rather large note is pressed into the man's hand. No questions are to be asked and she is not to be bothered again.
She turns her gaze back towards the pair who had been sitting near William, only to notice that he is no longer in his seat... but approaching the bar.. approaching her. She inclines her head slightly, turning toward him with her hands clasped behind her back.
He heard that. So... you are still the henchman... woman... for Gabriel. Pity. He had high hopes for your sudden appearance. "At the risk of sounding cliched, I ... do wonder why, of all the gin joints in all the world, you .... just happened to pick this one?" William is smiling, but he is curious. He is her former prince afterall. It's not just everyday you run into someone from a previous city you ruled.
That, and what is coincidental in the Tremere universe? "You will join me, I hope," the smile broadens a touch as he leans in, shortening the amount by which he was dwarfing the woman. "I'm a big fan of The Chance Encounter." Chance? That he's not sure of.
As he gestures to his booth, quiet words exchanged between him and the woman with the streak in her hair and the legs up to her eyebrows, he takes a moment to look at his former conversation-mates, as if to make certain they are still there.
The footballer is still hanging with his mates. Dinner is not completely lost...
"As much as anything is ever okay." Ephraim's deadpan response to the waitress. Not unexpected from someone is supposedly drinking away the blues.
Alayshah chuckles, her mouth covered with one hand. "Oh, don't worry about him." She reassures the poor waitress. "His puppy died this morning."
Clink. The bottle of brandy touches Alayshah's glass as she pours herself another glass of brandy. This makes two. She apparently isn't into savouring the drink.
"Why are we here, my love?" Ephraim's voice again.
Another look goes to the man, like a mother looking down on her petulant teenage son. "Because, my dear, you need to relax. Kick up your heels, like the old times. Do you even remember the old times, Ephraim?"
He just shrugs.
Ah, but appearances can be deceiving. "William. It has been a while," she says with another nod. Her way has always been short, to the point, and so she replies bluntly, "If you must know, I'm being re-stationed." Re-stationed, as in no longer in New Port.
"I admit that Gabriel figured I might bump into you. He sends his regards." Of course. Sure he does.
Her wine arrives just in the nick of time. Hands re-emerge from behind her and one plucks the glass from the bar as she murmurs, "I normally drink alone, but under the circumstances... that would be rude of me." The invitation has been accepted by the Ice Queen. She looks back toward the booth, sees how close it is to the strange pair there... and she nods once more. "Shall we?"
"Oh, I'm used to moodiness," the waitress smiles warmly. "I'm serving the Irish and Welsh all day and night. It's a grand Celtic tradition, brooding." With a wink, the waitress heads off for other customers...
"Re-stationed," William echoes, gesturing toward his booth with the outstretch of an arm. "To London? That's quite the step up. Hard to be more obscure than New Port, Oregon." I should know. "Well, I won't be insincere about senior de la Cruz, I'm certain he no more sends his regards than I would return them. But you're kind to say," he smiles warmly to her. "I love politeness as you know."
At the booth, he remains standing, waiting for Scarlet to sit. "I am rarely in London so it is quite the moment of kismet. So, I know you will not share information about the assignment, I shall not even ask, but," a quick grin, "... if you are going to be settling in London, you should be up for interesting times..." He glances to those at the table across from him as he takes a seat and he retakes his cigarette.
Now the two are returning, and Alayshah watches them. She is quite intrigued with this little game of watch-the-William, much like most of the people in this den of drunkards.
"You know, " Ephraim begins, scratching the black side of his goatee. "I miss the Children. They were so stupid." he sighs then, and takes a drink of his snakebite. "Sure, they weren't quite right in the head, but you can't blame people for their faults, really."
Alayshah glances to him with dark eyes and slight smile. "You, of all people, cannot fault people for being not-quite-right in the head." She pats his hand. "But you're my favourite childe who is still walking the earth." Only because Ephraim is last; between the two of them, they have slaughtered all other members of her brood.
The cool-mannered woman precedes William and slips into the booth after setting her glass down on the table. The comment about Gabriel causes her to glance up. There is no smile or smirk. No raised eyebrow. But there is a nod as she replies, "I know there is no love lost between you. But, as you say, it is only polite."
Kismet. Yes, that must be it. Fate. Chance. Karma. She honesty had no idea you'd be here, Plantagenet. But, she murmurs, "Well, not exactly. Vienna has made me a ... free agent of sorts. An investigator. London is a stop-over, really. I'm needed elsewhere in a few days, though, I will likely make a home here. But, there have been events which concerns Us," the Tremere, "as does it concern all." Her voice lowers and says, "I am at liberty to say it is the string of beheadings. As to our theories and thoughts, I cannot share those."
Her voice returns to its previous level as she says, "London is an interesting city. I have a few days to look for an apartment." Apartment. Not flat. So decidedly American. Another glance is given to the table nearby, to the strange couple, then back to William.
Child. She doesn't look old enough to be his mother. Or is it Childe. Indigo flickers briefly in their direction. If they are as he is, they may have noticed. But the woman across from him commands his attention for the time being. "Claridge's Hotel," William offers her. "Nice clientele, exclusive. Several notables of the City," the court even, "... call it home. But if you do not wish to be at the center of things, the Meniwell Tower provides a nice, posh base." A pause, then he grins, cigarette smoke escaping. "I am certain you knew these things already. I will tell you, mere politeness aside, that I always did find you to be a fascinating young woman." Young, he only looks to be in his late 20s, possibly 30 on the outside. It must be an old joke between them.
As you mention the beheadings, William's expression becomes very matter-of-fact. "Yes, I've been watching that story. It appears to have started in Germany and is moving across Europe. Disturbing." Yes, Saarbrucken. That was a loss. And Darius Wolfe. Among others now. "I'm sure several... officials are nervous at this point." Princes of London, Paris, Prague, Cologne.
There is a slight smile in the other pairs' direction. Children. Stupid. Not right in the head. And beheadings. Lovely dinner conversation this is.
She has a cigarette now, the middle eastern woman. A long cigarillo stolen straight from the silver screen of old. The smoke drifts in elegant spirals, not the diffused puffs of a man's cigarette. It seems a touch too stylized though, not quite moving as the mind would expect it to. There is a faint scent of kreteks to it as well; the clove cigarettes of the east.
The two are silent, having seemingly run out of things to say to each other. Just like a married couple, they lapse into long periods of silence at times. She sips her brandy, he his snakebite, and together they mull the room.
Another has entered the pub, though it would be rare for anyone to notice or care. Perhaps if they were outside, and did not see the door open, they might be surprised, but from the inside everything is normal. This one looks like he plays sports, and has the off-angled face to tell of many sudden stops on the field of play. Toothy grin, in desperate need of dental work, smiles for anyone his eyes might meet as he makes his way towards the bar.
"Hotels are lovely, but I might be looking for... something more permanent to work out of." Permanent. She's definitely not going back to New Port. "But, a hotel might be all I need until this investigation is dealt with," she admits.
The comments switch a bit, becoming more of a personal note. An eyebrow quirks upward momentarily, the first real expression the woman has sported since she came into the establishment tonight. "You flatter me, William. But, thank you." And that is all that is said. The cool exterior seemed to melt momentarily, but immediately froze back up before she spoke.
Regarding the beheadings, she lowers her voice again. "It is something which has affected so many. I understand even Ms. Whitethorne had a personal tragedy come out of it. This is something which needs to be addressed. And so, now you know why I am no longer in America."
She glances up again, looking at the silent pair nearby, then over at the door again as it opens. A moment is spent studying the newcomer, then she turns back to William. The glass of wine is taken up and sipped, then she leans across the table and murmurs something very low to William, so only he can hear, "Something's going on, William. There are two here... who really aren't here." She finally spoke up. It's not like a Tremere to share its secrets, but then again, she's not the kind to let others restrict what she does.
"Many tragedies," he agrees with a simple nod, a flick of ash from the end of his cigarettes. "Ms. Whitethorne among them. But, her story I hope shall have a better ending." A pause. "I have not been very involved in matters of investigation, other than Ms. Whitethorne's case. Apparently, that ended in Spain." There is a pointed look at that. Spain is Europe's continuing problem child.
Indigo fastens upon the woman across from him, his smile spreading slightly. "Not here?" He exhales curling smoke and settles back in the booth, head inclining and expression suddenly more amused. "In the usual way or..." Eyebrows lift, indicating supernatural. At that, the corners of his mouth twist. Figures. London. This is why I don't spend quality time here.
The newcomer shoves his way past a group of revelers -- the footballer that William was eyeing earlier -- muscling them out of the way as he takes enters the general melee of the bar. Scarlet may be surprised to see the footballer stumble at that ephemeral shove, as he feels the man force past.
"I've always wanted to sail a ship," Mutters Ephraim at random. "but I never wanted to sail at night." He shrugs, and stirs his drink again with one finger. "This stuff tastes like piss."
"Shush, now, and drink up. You ordered it." No he didn't, she did, but she doesn't care. "And be polite, they're doing their best here."
"I never knew Ms. Whitethorne too well, but do believe my sincerity when I say I hope she recovers with few setbacks," Scarlet comments softly. For her, this might even seem to be a very sweet and concerned comment. More wine is consumed, making it look to anyone from across the room or at the bar that nothing is amiss. Very little of the wine is actually consumed, however.
Still leaning over the table a bit, she puts her elbow on the table, her hand in her hair. To those at the bar, would it simply look like she was flirting with the big man across from her? She continues to speak softly, murmuring, "No, not in the 'usual' way. Two people are, from what I can tell, not really people. Illusions perhaps? The young lady with the strange-looking gentleman nearby... and the one who stepped in moments before with the bad teeth." She calls it as she sees it. "Someone here is up to something... but for what reason, I cannot tell."
Though, as she looks over her shoulder again toward the bar (briefly), she does frown slightly as she sees the shove. Looking back at William, she comments, "Illusions with some mass to them, apparently." Ice-blue looks directly into William's gaze and mouths the word, "Ravnos?" without a sound. It's a suggestion. She is taking an educated guess. Does William lip-read?
He can indeed lip read, though admittedly he's better with 'fuck off', 'fuck you' or 'fuck me', but he gets by. William's smile fades to a quiet, noncommittal look. It's a look women have seen frequently. Usually the morning after, however. "Interesting," he murmurs, cigarette extinguished. Smiling at the lean, William leans in likewise.
Flirtation can mask a multitude of other sins, and is also a handy cover for just about any situation. Fortunately, he's an expert at it.
When he leans forward, he comes with the scent of cinnamon and cloves -- cloves from the cigarette, cinnamon from ... some other source. "With that kind of substance, I would say most likely so." Gypsies. "St. Marie was a big fan of throwing such illusions around. I'm convinced that most anarchs in New Port were nothing but illusions made manifest." Since the only one he ever actually saw was St. Marie herself. Well, and Aaron.
Indigo eyes lift and lower, "You know what they say about a house of cards?" he mouths and then he sits back, a glance of indigo toward the threesome that is really the lonesome.
Alayshah's laughter skimmed across the surface of other people's conversations, like a thrown stone skims across a lake. It is unprovoked, unsummoned. She merely chose to laugh. And, at least to Scarlet, it is obvious that the fleeting image did indeed choose.
"Ephraim, my dear, where are we to go next?" Her laughter did what she wanted it to do: attract attention. Now, sated on other people's gazes, she returns to her empty chatter.
"I was thinking of Picadilly Circus" comes Ephraim's dead-toned response, his fingers weaving across the surface of the table to draw spiderwebs with condensation. "Or maybe not. I don't know --" He says something more, but did not give it voice. Ephraim merely mouthed the words, then "-- there is a court here. We could visit."
The severely-dressed woman glances over at the pair - or single - sitting not too far away, her attention caught briefly by the woman's laughter, like everyone else. Glancing back at William, Scarlet says with a nod, "Yes. Very interesting." There is a pause, then another murmur, "Does London sport many of their kind?" That particular Clan, that is. "If not..." then someone needs to know, perhaps.
Sipping a bit more of the wine, she adds, "St. Marie. There's a name I haven't even considered for a while. It's entirely possible that they were illusions... of a sadly misguided mind." That's likely the first time Scarlet's ever said anything about the woman, or the anarchs. She always kept so tight-lipped back in New Port. Perhaps Europe does change people, even if they've only been here a day or two.
"As it is, I still need to make my own presence known. I'm expected, but haven't checked in yet." That appointment isn't until tomorrow, however.
There is a smile backed by a quietly amused chuckle. He seems to share your opinions, or has opinions even lower of his would-be rival. That's always a possibility. Of the Ravnos -- or possibility of Ravnos? To that, William says nothing. It is not that he is being noncommittal -- though there is certainly that -- but as far as gypsies go, that's London's business -- and its problem. "I will be paying the Tate a visit myself," he remarks. "I rarely visit when I am here, but then," a grin, "I am rarely here. Twice a year?" he posits. "On average," he finishes in a murmur. "But," the smile again appears, and beautifully, "... it is perhaps past time that I show myself formally. At least on a lark," he again finishes quietly. He inclines his head, and indigo is quick to glance to the tablemates nearby. He does hate to miss a party.
And then the Guinness is finished. Another cigarette is not re-lit. His departure seems imminent. Indigo eyes leave his tablemate to wander to the footballer, still entrenched with his mates. Maybe another time, mate.
His focus shifts, laying itself more squarely on the woman in his booth. The rest of the room feels the release. People who kept to their seats for unknown reasons, lingered for another smoke, another drink, begin to disperse, while the crowd around the darts and telly increase. "It was.... good to see you, Scarlet," William mentions. He's not sure why, and he lets you see that. Then he smiles, rising. "Usually, I avoid my past coming to haunt me." There is a ripple of indigo, a shudder against the air as he winks. Perhaps she will get the underhanded joke of it all. "As for your investigations, good luck. I hope another pair of eyes can help solve it... before anyone else...loses their head..."
Pound notes leave his hands, landing upon the tabletop like fallen leaves from that tall oak. He's left enough for his damage done, a hefty tip, and a bit of a tab and tip for Scarlet as well, in the event that she has another for her long road ahead. For his part, William is done. No parting shot, no grand statements.
Just the bills of note as evidence that a Ventrue prince just passed by.
Posted by rowan at February 14, 2004 07:28 PM
