God is less omnipresent...
     It is night. It is London. It is Claridge's. And that is Davydd ap Owain called Llywelyn coming through the door. He's been the preverbal bad penny -- he's turning up everywhere these nights. On the streets, buying up real estate, playing sets at pubs. Some of the usual haunts, mind you, but now he's coming around Ventrue parts.
     It's enough to make one paranoid...
     So there he is, in a dark suit with a yellow shirt. Damn posh. No tie though. As if he'd intentionally wear a noose. He's already smoking, the living chimney. And as he strolls in (in that marching stride of his), Davydd heads immediately for the bar.
     Scotch, please...
     Yes, sir...
     As he stands at the bar, his hand coming out to take the drink, Davydd ap Owain takes a look around. Let's see. Who are the players on the stage tonight...

     There are the inevitable flowing trickle of bodies without heartbeats. There is the tick and tock of it; the metronome of the undead, the click and the clock of Money, Old Blood, Breeding and Finance.
     And where there is that cash register cachet, where Old Money walks hand in hand with Old Families, there are those who are drawn to it, seeking success. Hoping that success will rub off on them, like so much pollen from fertile blossoms. Success begets success.
     She has not failed to gain some success, but there can always be more. There are always rungs higher up upon the ladder. There is always something more to attain. She claims that aspiration keeps her young - a joke which those who know her (but aren't in the know) laugh at dutifully, without quite knowing why it's so funny. None of them know that the young-looking woman with her impressive clothing and even more impressive bank account was there to see the days that their grandparents were born. Or the nights, at least; same difference.
     A quiet word draws her attention to you; a neat cap of fair hair a few shades lighter than the light end of brown turns, the wispy ends of her bun fluttering in the created current. Hazel eyes regard you dutifully at her companion's (lackey's) gesture, then narrow in contemplation.
     Llewellyn...
     Marianne Shipley - that's what she calls herself now. She's actually not a Shipley at all, wouldn't dream of being a member of such an upstart family. But it'd be hard to explain, being a member of a family which officially died out when World War II took its most promising young noblemen's lives. So she's become a Shipley.
     That doesn't mean she's thrilled about it. But she's made money behind the Shipley name - money enough to keep the property 'in the family', and herself a success, sometimes in public eye and sometimes not. This decade, she's an up-and-coming businesswoman. Next decade she'll retire to 'start a family'. The decade after that, or maybe the following one, her daughter or niece will become a rising star. A self-made dynasty - but it works for her. Even if she's still annoyed at those beastly Germans for ruining her plans.
     "Llewellyn." The delicate, waif-like features are set in a determined expression as Marianne approaches, abandoning her flunky with a glass still held in her hand. "You look as you always do - that's a vile shirt, have you been taking fashion advice from the Toreadors again?" She smiles. There's faint animosity behind the smile, but nothing personal. She wants to see how you will react.

     The light glints off the glass as he lifts it. It pauses in his grasp, mid air, but as you talk about his shirt he goes ahead with his drink. "Shipley," he notes with grand amiability as he gives his body to the bar and his attention to you. "I'd never dream of giving them such an unfit canvas to work from. God knows," Davydd grins, letting the edges of his smile show in his humor.
     "How's the moneychanging business," he says it more than inquires it. But that's what Ventrue do when they're together. They talk about moneychanging. He takes a pull from his cigarette and blows the smoke elsewhere. He's such a gentleman. The old Ventrue does give you the once over with his eyes. He's undead -- he's not dead.
     "It seems a little quiet in here tonight. Where is Sebastian? Dancing on tables elseplace? Or tapdancing on the skulls in the catacombs... oh, wait, no... that's the entertainment in Paris," he chuckles. It is sad, but true.

     Marianne sniffs slightly, tipping her head to the side as she regards you. "Funny fellow," she murmurs, "I don't quite think. Actually inquiring after business, Llewellyn? I'd heard you'd come back; I hadn't heard you'd changed. Or have you decided politeness has its place?"
     She doesn't believe it; it shows. And she's still feeling you out, trying to see what you're made of. Surely you haven't really decided to play by the books; that would be such a first. And what has she got to lose by picking at you, with your low regard in this company?
     Not that she'd go too far; you're still an elder, if nothing else...
     "The ... moneychanging business goes fairly well, Llewellyn." Marianne says this evenly. She is quite delicately built, and there are those who whisper that she was actually not the legitimate daughter of the lordling she is presented to be, but actually the bastard girl of that selfsame lordling with a Chinese girl brought by his father from a very successful trade expedition. The hair is not black; the eyes, though slanted, are not truly Chinese. But she is small and dainty and almost birdlike, and she regards you as unblinkingly as if you were a plump but potentially poisonous berry.
     "It goes well," Marianne repeats, then shrugs, folding one arm over herself as she takes a sip of her drink with the other hand. Jade and gold slide against her wrist. "The vast and Solomonic temple of the City is still ours," she murmurs without vanity, but as if stating simple truth. "There have been occasional attempts to wrest control lately, but things are still well in hand. Or were you asking about me personally? As for Sebastian..."
     The name is drawn out, drawled out, and the slanting hazel eyes regard you suspiciously, as if expecting you to cut in with a quip of your own. "He isn't here," Marianne summarizes finally. "And I rather doubt you'll find him tabledancing. I suppose you intend to offer him lessons?"

     "I'm out of singles," Davydd cracks, his voice sparking against the smoke he breathes, "... so I suppose I'd have to." Fiery comets lift above his eyes, streaking upward as his expression goes droll. "I seem to be in all the papers lately. And here I thought I lived and breathed the comics."
     He knows his own history. If anyone's going to poke at it, it's going to be him thankyouverymuch. Let it never be said he doesn't have a sense of humor when it comes to matters Welsh.
     "I thought it was a requirement. Have the rules changed? You know, I'm an old man. I tend to forget things." Yes, he's quite old -- in both vampiric notions of age, both in time and in blood. Davydd grins, it's an easy expression. A wayward smile goes on a slanted journey. "But I'm nothing ... if not polite." His clan agrees on half that statement. "So...what's the news today, Shipley... no exciting plots, no ... swashbuckling ... stock exchanges...?" One eyebrow cocks up higher than the other and Davydd takes a break to take a drink.

     Marianne rolls her head back on her shoulders, jade earrings dangling. She plays up the Oriental suspicions sometimes, with little touches like that. A few of the others whisper that she wanders around in a kimono when she's in the privacy of her own home, but most are skeptical of that. "Remind me not to ask you for change of a twenty," she says coolly. "If you're all out of singles. Out of singles but single, hmm? Unusual. For you."
     Botched romances with Rose, with Sandrine - vampires feed on gossip as much as politics and blood. But she doesn't seem to care, particularly; she's sizing you up, certainly. But for what purpose?
     Her hand slips down to her hip, and without looking (she heard the footsteps approaching), she sets her unfinished drink down on the tray held by a servant behind her. "Oh, going on about your age again - that's original, Llewellyn. Go on, rub it in, older than me, older than the rest, older than dirt." She smirks, then drops her head to the side. "I was involved in a very invigorating corporate takeover. We hijacked half the board and took over the company, then plundered it for its assets and let the derelict remains drift on fire out to sea. I could give you the details, but they wouldn't excite you half so much as the little bit I just told you. How interested in money are you, really?"
     It doesn't hold the note of a rhetorical question, oddly...

     "Single... unusual for me?" He laughs at that. "Where are you getting your information? I'm mostly single. Some would... ah, let's be honest... most would say deservedly so." Davydd shrugs. "I can't imagine it's interesting to anyone. But I guess for sheer comedy... perhaps."
     What are you on about, Shipley. The look wonders it aloud as he taps the ash off his cigarette and takes a swallow of the scotch. It's not Dunross quality, but it's not bad. Dark eyes look to you, lifted to look up beneath his brows. "Age before beauty, so the saying goes. I do know dirt that's younger. But the takeover sounds exciting, at least the way you say it." His smile slides. "I miss the days of plunder. I was quite good at that. But then, all Welshmen make excellent pirates."
     Captain Morgan, for starters. Ah, his great-great-great-great-well you get the point, grandson...
     "I don't want for much. I don't find I need more. It's never motivated me. But I suppose that's rather obvious." Now, Davydd grins. "I invested well. I stole well when I needed." He takes a breath of fire and smoke, looking to you directly. If the rumors of the kimono are true, it would be a sight worth seeing. "That's about where it ends for me. Not exactly the calling card of Ventrue ambition," he chuckles at that.

     "Allow me to rephrase," Marianne says quietly, one hand coming up to toy with the chain around her throat. "Single - as in, unable to find the appropriate companionship of the appropriate gender. I've had to modernize," she adds parenthetically, almost to herself, "but I confess that I still find this very open promiscuity a bit taxing on the nerves. It lacks grace, to say nothing of graciousness. One should at least maintain a modest amount of discretion, whether it involves copulation, dining, or death."
     How very Victorian of her - or is it? The eyebrows arch as she tips her head back to look you up and down, gaze raking you with a casual sort of scorn - well. Casual for a Ventrue. "I lack patience tonight, Llewellyn, and if I'm patient, we'll be here all night and it'll be months or even years before anyone gets anything sensible out of you - it's been years since the last time anyone got anything sensible out of you, anyway. You say you make a good pirate when motivated - or would do. What would motivate you?"
     One pointed toe taps against the oriental carpet upon which she stands. "Or, more to the point still - what are you back for, if it isn't to get your feet wet? The corporate world is fairly rapacious, Llewellyn. Sharks in the water and they always smell blood." She smiles. "Sometimes it's even been my own. We always fight best when we have the most to lose, but - are you here for business or pleasure?"

     "I'm of old pagan stock," he adds as quietly. "There's nothing appropriate about sex... or about me. Especially not me having sex. Absolutely inappropriate, that is." He stamps out the cigarette. All that's left to occupy his hand is the glass of scotch. A glance of green, and the scotch is topped off.
     "Ah, sensibility," Davydd croons. "Such language," comes the mock scold. As you look him up and down, your gaze raking over him much as he'd imagine you'd rake your fingers though the devil's own coals, he stands there, open to your look, unabashedly himself, drinking his scotch. "If I tell you what motivates me, Shipley, it'll spoil all the mystery I've built up," his other hand gesticulates as he speaks, "... over the centuries. It would be like... suddenly finding out Santa Claus is the butcher 'round the corner. It loses all its magic that way."
     The old Ventrue leans in a touch. "You've nothing to worry over, Shipley," Davydd murmurs. "I've not the stomach for the corporate world. I leave that to your capable hands." Leaning back, he once more gives his body to the bar and he lifts his glass for another swallow of the Scottish whiskey. "I'm here... because I have decided to be. It's as simple as that. I know, not as thrilling as swashbuckling adventures in the Financial District, but it's the truth. It's the one privilege I have." That of an elder. To do whatever the fuck he wants.

     "Tsk," Marianne coos, leaning over to one side of you to pick a cocktail napkin off of the bar, placing on it a few ice cubes stolen from an abandoned drink. "You disappoint me, Llewellyn." Not, her gaze seems to suggest, that she expects you to concern yourself with her disappointment, but - "And here I'd hoped you'd offer some challenge, some excitement. It's been months since my last venture capital fling. And here you show up," you are visually raked again, "and you prove yourself to be - dull."
     She mock-sighs, seeming terribly put upon as she turns her back to you. "I'm sure there are quite a few things that you would leave in my capable hands if you were of a mind to," Marianne retorts silkily, plucking up an ice cube and running it against her lips, then crunching on it; how gauche. She swallows the ice chips. "But I was more interested in seeing what you were up to than in hearing what you aren't up to. I," she adds as an afterthought, "am not pagan. I would ask if you think less of me for it, but frankly, I don't really care."

     "I get the distinct feeling that if I did leave something of mine in your capable hands, I should not be attached to them," Davydd lilts in reply. "Or getting them back. I can admire thievery in a woman. I can't abide it in men," he grins at that. No, thieves seldom keep the company of other thieves. For long.
     "If you think I'm dull, then my job is done. I can kick back, put my feet up, and drink scotch till my eyes go ....ah, too late, they're already green." He takes another swallow of the scotch and sets the glass aside. If one were hoping to see him wilt under such attention, one shall be disappointed.
     "Hmm... up to ...up to... well, I suppose it's not exactly news, but I've been investing in real estate. Here and there. I'm in an... acquisitions sort of mood, I guess. I'm hoarding." Or nesting. He smirks at that. Maybe that's it. I'm nesting. I'll have to tell Fiona.

     "I can safely assure you that I am not a man, Llewellyn, though I'm afraid you'll have to take my word for it. I'm fool enough to consider business with you," Marianne glances over her shoulder, arching one pert eyebrow, "but not quite fool enough to risk mixing business with pleasure - not where you're concerned."
     She drops the rest of the ice back into the glass she'd pilfered them from, then turns back to face you. "Real estate - chancy investment, Llewellyn, unless you're planning on playing hot potato. The market's very bullish right now, and best to get any properties off your hands as quickly as possible if you're hoping to turn a profit. Not," Marianne smiles archly, "that you asked for my opinion, but this is hardly the seventeenth century, is it?"

     "That's too bad," Davydd murrs, "...I suppose pleasure as business is right out then." Such a card, he is. "And why... may I ask... am I to be avoided? Don't the women who spend time in my company always seem the better for being without it afterwards?" He laughs at that, green eyes twinkling. It's funny because it's true.
     "It depends on what you're buying... and where, but I'll keep that in mind. I'm buying low. When the market rebounds, I'll sell high. Trends don't matter much in the long run. I'll outlive them after all. And... no ... it's a far cry from the seventeenth century. I miss the misfiring pistols, short on function but long on style. But you know, in my country women always had their opinions. And always shared them. It's the English that preferred the muzzles. Me... I like a woman who's not afraid to use her mouth."

     She whirls around at that, features contorting for just a moment, that flash of anger in the hazel eyes. Just as quickly, she catches herself; but you can see the anger still lurking in her face, which had been mobile and is now frozen. "Perhaps you find you need to pay for it, Llewellyn, but if so, I suggest you find someone that desperately in need of your money."
     It looks like for whatever reason, this isn't a topic she'll joke about - or not about herself. Marianne moves slightly away, further down the bar, lifting two fingers to get the 'tender's attention. "I've never seen fit to allow any man - or woman - to muzzle me, Llewellyn. Or hold me back, or get in my way. But with comments like yours, I can see where you get your reputation from. The seventeenth century may have had its moments, but some of us prefer to find our moments where we can - and an appreciation of subtle elegance is something sorely lacking."

     "Come on, even in the seventeenth century they had a sense of humor," he protests quietly as you flash in anger and take the bait. He tries not to laugh. The eyes are sparkling bright, no matter how dark. He's almost praying you slap him. Barbarian. Go on. Say it. You know you want to.
     "I don't have time for elegance," Davydd notes, finishing the scotch. He straightens, preparing to head elsewhere, it seems. A welcome respite? "It doesn't become me. I'm the mud and blood of this land, my dear. I know nothing of silks and snuffboxes." I am what I am.
     Davydd smiles amiably. Warmly, it spreads to his eyes, the rest of his face. "I apologize for my... ill-mannered, barbaric humor. My reputation stands on its own legs." He smirks at that and starts to head away from the bar.

     "I have a sense of humour, Mister Llewellyn," Marianne says coolly. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't be here." Talking to you, or ...
     She allows you to begin making your departure, watching you with those narrowed (bastard?) eyes. "Mud and blood have their place, I suppose. Let me know if you ever figure out what and where it is. Tata, then." She takes up a glass - wine - and turns away, one arm folded in over herself while the other holds her glass aloft to her lips. Her heels click rapidly as she goes to rejoin her flunkies, haughteur writ large in that straightened spine.

Posted by rowan at July 06, 2005 03:41 PM