The locals call it The Boards. There are some who for their frequency might call it home. The athletic buildings for the Imperial College in Kensington are a small and largely unglamorous affair. The college itself is a conglomeration of various institutions, some of which were combined as recently as 2012, with the athletics centers enlarged to accommodate a growing student body.
     During the early evening, The Boards is crowded with post-grads and medical students learning fencing techniques in foil, epee and saber. In the later evenings, the numbers of students dwindle. Those who remain work with the instructor (maestro or magister) are few. But others join in, coming in the late hours to spar.
     The sparring begins in earnest after the last mortal has wandered away.
     He had Olympian dreams. He had been an alternate in 2008, but he never got a chance. Here, he and others of his generation play out Olympic dreams while others recall using the skills for much more visceral purposes. He and Shelley used to smirk at their bitterness for having missed the gold. Il ne doit pas etre, mon ami.
     There are few here tonight. Not a huge crowd. Valan is in his whites, his gloved right hand holding the saber, his ungloved left pulling the mask from his face. Golden hair spills this way and that, as mussed as it was before he started, and gold-green eyes shine with the energy that war, however pretended, brings out in his blood. He has the tall and lean build of someone who has been doing this for most of his life, well before Unlife began...

     Centuries ago, Greydon began to learn the dance of blades when he was a boy, his father wanting to make sure he could maintain himself honorably should it ever be needed. Throughout the years, those skills burned into him when he walked beneath the sun have remained important to him, and he has kept up with his practice.
     And so, Trevelyan strides into The Boards with one hand tucked into a pocket, wearing a finely tailored suit, though one that is worn with a certain casual disdain to it. The top button is undone, and the tie held loosely around his neck.
     Greydon pauses on his way to the changing room and takes in those who are present, mild curiosity showing in his eyes as he regards those who are familiar to him. A nod is offered to the childe of Meurelle, a faint grin touching his lips.

     Drills. One puts oneself through them to remind oneself of what was, as much as what is; to remind oneself that the blade goes here, the body there, and the two ought not meet save at the joining of hands. Correctly. Like so.
     Duels. A puzzle in motion. I put myself here, my blade there; am I fast enough? Clever enough? Perceptive enough? Do I dance out of the way, or do I deflect with a twist of my wrist, a flick of my hand? Do I wear my heart on my sleeves, my art in my eyes? Do I win, or do I lose?
     He is young yet - barely a hundred years as a vampire, and only a handful of years beyond that. Short, and slender, and almost nondescript, Ramses (he had another name, but we all choose our own names when we begin to write, don't we?) is a stripling among men, a reed among oaks. And a poet among men of letters. It's a small wonder he had skill with a sword in life; he fought duels for the protection of his honour and reputation back then, black hair and flashing eyes insufficiently fear-inducing to sway away those who might insult, might intimidate. Now he has less reason to pursue honor's endurance upon the field. Now, it is more art, more hobby - but as passionately pursued as ever.
     The tip of his foil is lowered; he comes to a halt. He turns, he bows to his imaginary opponent, and he straightens. "A pleasant evening..."

     Valan pivots. He looks to the insubstantial air a moment with an expression -- Is he talking to you, or is he talking to me? -- before he lifts a golden eyebrow, the corner of his mouth flicking a feline smile at the shorter Ramses. "Ramses, are you talking to me or to the ghost?"
     If he could sweat, he would be covered in it. Valan nods to his saber partner. Go on without me. "The octave looks better. The six would have slaughtered him," he grins over to Ramses. Him meaning your insubstantial partner.
     Gold-green eyes glance to the movement across the room, to the one who wanders there in a suit. "There are jackets in the back, if you wish..." Valan calls out to him. He nods to the door at the far end of the room, the equipment closet.

     A flash of amusement touches Greydon's lips as he hears Valan's words, his attention shifting from the young man to the one with his, well... substantial and imposing, if invisible, opponent. "Hmm?" he inquires as his attention returns to Valan, only to chuckle softly, "Oh, yes. I'm aware; it would be unfortunate to ruin a suit to forgetfulness, hmm?"
     With an idleness to his steps, he heads over towards the far door to slip change out of the courtly clothes and into the traditional whites. The mask and a saber are also procured while he is there.

     "The ghost, of course." Ramses turns to Valan, dropping one shoulder and offering the other Brujah a small smile. "But I can extend a greeting to you as well. And I think my six still needs work. I've been spending too much time with the pen and not enough with the sword, lately." His journalistic interests - a few behind the scenes pawns in local journalism. Nothing to outright threaten the Ventrue or Toreador interests, perhaps, but ... even younger vampires must have their hobbies.
     Ramses glances towards 'the suit', eyes narrowed for a moment in thought and then recognition. His head dips slightly lower. "Sir." Polite acknowledgment given, to Greydon, and he looks back to Valan, resting the tip of his foil against the side of his shoe. "I'd offer to practice, but foil against saber's no way to go. Keeping in practice, or do you have some sort of match coming up? Exhibition, maybe?" Inquiring minds can't help but ask.

     "I leave the crimes against fashion up to Americans. There is no need to murder a perfectly good suit, ne c'est pas?" Valan chuckles and looks back to Ramses. "No exhibition, but the nightly sort," he shakes his head. "Sadly, my competing days are over. Now, it is just me and my ego." Sort of like Me and My Shadow. Only different.
     Valan nods to his former partner in saber and he pivots to head to the collection of weapons nearby. "I will exchange the saber for foil, how about that," Valan offers. "Stephen," he says to his former partner, "...perhaps you would care to take on the new arrival...?" who is coming now with a saber.
     Valan sets aside his saber and takes up in pistol-gripped foil instead. It is modern, just as he is. Sliding his mask back onto his head, he takes a position opposite Ramses. He salutes and drops into en guarde.
     Stephen is another of the teachers here, the saber specialist. A Toreador from the Napoleonic Era (strictly Anti-Bonaparte), he gives a nod to Greydon. "Trevelyan," he nods. It's a small world. "It's up to you," he offers the Brujah.

     Greydon flashes Valan a grin as he wanders back out towards the practice floor, "Indeed, the Americans ruin enough good suits on their own, and then make what is bad downright repulsive... We need not follow that trend." He rolls his shoulders slowly, feeling the balance of the saber before flickering his eyes over to Stephen.
     Ahh, a challenge. He inclines his head slightly, pursing his lips and murmuring, "Mmn.. Good evening, Stephen. It's been a long time; shall we cross blades, then?" He moves along forward, and lifts his hand up to pull down the mask, before lifting the blade and taking the en guarde position.

     Stephen lowers his mask with a blase smirk and a murmur of 'Must we?' before taking position. His ungloved hand motions slightly, the finger tapping the air upon each syllable: "No impaling," comes the muffled tone. You know, he could sound wry in a hurricane. He takes up the en guarde position. A moment later, he is leaping on the offensive.

     "By all means, then. We can make an exhibition of ourselves." He smirks a little at the play on words. A short jerk of his head, and Ramses steps back into position, offering a short, slight bow to Valan. "I will endeavor to make a good show of it; your ego is, I'm sure, invulnerable, just as is my own. Just do your best not to plagiarize my poetry, and I will do my best not to plagiarize your moves."
     He has a bit of wit left in him...
     A glance to Stephen, faint amusement followed by the flash of dark eyes back towards the Frenchman. "Shall we up the stakes with a wager? Terms to be determined before or after?", the poet wonders. "Something to liven the blood. Something, after all, must." His mouth quirks.
     Among old, dead things, yes, the blood must be enlivened.

     A wager?
     "You know this phrase: ars gratis artis? Art, for the sake of art," Valan's voice issues past his mask, slightly muffled. No wagers. Perhaps he has been spending too much time with Toreador.
     Some would certainly say so...
     Valan gives Ramses time to set himself. "Ready?" He asks but once before he is feigning his first move. Until Ramses shows his own level of expertise, his own speed, he keeps his motions restrained -- as if he were still teaching the mortals.

     There is a soft sigh from beyond Greydon's faceguard, although there is a grin upon his lips that can be heard through his voice, "No impaling? Is that not all of the fun of such a dance as this? Well, if you insist..." And then, Stephen comes on, and the Brujah lunges forward to answer the Toreador's offensive moves with a strong parry that leads into an offensive play of his own. Greydon knows his advantages; he is fast as any of his blood, but the Toreador may well counter this, so he puts strength each blow to try to force the man into the defensive.

     "Mm. As you like." The skepticism flashes into Ramses' face, though without bitterness. To him, fencing is only partially an art; for him, it is about winning. Scoring off those larger than himself. Larger, or just perhaps intending to put the little poet in his place...
     He advances, blade at the ready. He is prepared to hold back as well; letting his opponent study him, as he himself studies Valan, eyebrows fierce in concentration. How good is he? Good enough to not have died in his duels, a hundred years ago. He has kept it up. Attempted to increase his skills, as he aged without aging.
     But someone has to make the first move. The tip of Ramses' foil flashes towards Valan's hip, hilt held in towards his lower left center. A fast movement, intended to test the other man's reflexes and speed, on the downbeat of an advance.
     "I presume your blood is stirred enough without a wager, then..."

     Sometimes the best offense is a strong defense. Well, that's the prevailing theory. The studio is suddenly filled with the sounds of saber blades. Dull though they are, they make a sharp sound against the air.
     Foils whisper in comparison...
     They trade blows, they trade lunges, they trade moving forward and backward. A leap here, an advanced lunge there.
     Those pairs with epee have since stopped. Masks removed, they watch the sabered pair trade hits. They shout out each mark. One zet! One one! Two one! Two two!

     Meanwhile...
     The foiled encounter is quicker. Lighter. It is like a silent movie compared to the bang and slide of metal nearby. Valan has fewer years on the planet than Ramses. He is quick, but Ramses ...at full speed... will no doubt be quicker.
     Still...
     He is a studied and accomplished opponent. A would-be Olympian frozen in time but out of competition. Touches are traded, exchanged in metallic handshakes...points against padded chests...

     There was once a time not so far in the past where martial skill was taught to all young nobles, and though Greydon may have been born beyond when such customs had a true need, his family kept up and demanded their children maintain the honor of their blood. And now, it is a new blood that demands honoring, a blood that brings strength and speed that in those mortal years he could not imagine...
     His blows are heavy and fast, preferring throughout the contest to be the aggressor... And yet, he is not the perfect soldier; Stephen's skill and speed lash out upon him from time to time, but in the end the greater experience and the Brujah strength are what end it in the Lord Trevelyan's favor, and the final point is scored.
     There is a certain advantage to no longer living as once he did; when he pulls up his face mask and gives a respectful bow to his opponent, there's no sweat upon his skin. "Well done, Stephen." he compliments with politeness, no hint of disdain in it.

     The mask comes off and Stephen bows with a smile. He comes forward, his ungloved hand offered. "Very well done, Trevelyan." The smirk shows itself afterward. "What are you doing here of all places? Bit out of the way isn't it?" A university. Late at night. "Looking for co-eds?"

     He is fast. Very fast. His expression remains one of that intense concentration, the thunderstorm in motion. It's a hissing, snake-like curl of metal against metal - grace and speed above strength. Not that strength has no role in this; but it is about control.
     Control, under pressure, lightning-fast decisions - and the thunder of the stamped foot Espagnole. The tip makes its impact, and he straightens, retaking his place on the line. A touch. "You are good." No need to be insulting; he can be magnanimous in victory. The tip lowers again, with that faint bow from the waist. "I don't need to give up writing poetry after all."

     The foil flicks against the air in a final stroke -- that of salute. His ungloved hand removes his mask, his golden hair disheveled again. But it is cut that way. There's not much that will make it anything but spikey or mussed. Valan has the foil tucked beneath one arm, the mask beneath the other. He nods, "As are you," he offers simply.
     Mask tossed over to land on his bag, he turns and offers his ungloved hand to his opponent. "Merci. Good match. You should come by more often. The matches are typically the third Thursday of the month."

     "I'll see if I can make it." Why not? Maybe someone will want to make a wager. Ramses gestures absently, then with his empty hand, takes the hand offered to be shaken. Firm grip, but not unnaturally so - it's a friendly match. "Perhaps I will come by." Dark eyes, dark hair; his hair is too short to be mussed, cut only barely long enough to move in a breeze. "I should pay my respects to Lord Trevelyan now, before I go..."

     Greydon takes the offered hand and gives it a firm shake, flashing a grin to his former opponent and chuckling, "The advantage of co-eds is you can have your pick of flavors, depending on which is around at the time. But, in truth, I felt like some practice, and my usual partner is out of town on business."
     His the hand is returned, a gesture made as if he were wiping sweat from his brow, although it is more from ancient habit then any true need. "I had heard there is often dancing to be done here, even as late as this, and it appears that the rumors were true. He pulls off the mask, and shakes his head, the hand then going through his hair as he holds his blade under an arm and the mask in his other, attention flickering over to those who danced with lighter blades.
     A nod is given to them, and a curious smile at the outcome; after all, one has heard of the prowess of Edward's childe at such things...

     Stephen follows Greydon's attention as it wanders back to Valan. He smiles. "Yes... well... some flavors are better than others." He winks at Trevelyan as he pivots back to him. "It's been pretty active here. Shelley, I'm sure you've heard, has gone off to Paris. But Montague there," a nod of his head to the young man in question, "...has made life interesting. You've met him, right?"
     Who hasn't by now...

     The returned grasp is strong, the clasp brief. "Please do, I think you'll find it to your liking." Lord Trevelyan? Valan glances to Stephen and the Lord in question as he begins to remove his glove. He wanders toward his bag, setting his foil on top of it to join his saber and his mask.

     The foil is taken carefully over to one side, where Ramses the Younger (he cannot be the Elder) places it down gently inside a case. The case is left to stand where it is, with other stripped equipment; the Brujah, however, turns away from it to rejoin his fellows. He stands a little behind and to one side, one hand tucked behind his back absentmindedly, as if to remind himself of proper stance. Words? No words, yet. He'll wait.

     Greydon laughs softly, an easy sound that carries with it a certain amount of warmth as he replies to Stephen, "I highly doubt Edward would select one that wouldn't; or i'd be terribly disappointed in him, and that is a thing I consider rather unlikely."
     This said, he lets his eyes glance over at the silent pair and flash them both a friendly grin, a vague gesture that seems to say 'at ease' made since there is this air of Silence going on at the moment. "Good evening, Ramses; tell me, did you defeat the illustrious young Valan, of whom I have heard so many little whispers, or did he you? I was a bit preoccupied, you'll understand."
     His voice is soft, almost teasing, but he turns around and heads towards the equipment locker. Suuuurely someone will follow, right?

     Golden eyes give a roll -- he has learned it from The Master of eye rolls -- and, chuckling, he begins to unclothe himself where he stands. Valan reaches behind him and unsnaps the jacket. He removes it and steps out of the loop.
     Beneath the jacket is a t-shirt, light of cloth, red, and obviously haute couture. It is hand-painted with gold leaf dye. "Three touches to two," Valan states. Vampiric hearing can pick him up clearly. There is no real need to follow.
     As others may head into the equipment room, he reaches into his bag, pulling out the jeans and red Doc Oxfords. The white breeches and hose will be the next to go. Valan steps out of the white Nikes.
     "I am good, but I am not invincible," he chuckles. And then he shrugs. Every night is a lesson. Win or lose.

     Stephen chuckles also. "I am not going to start speaking for Edward now. Leave me out of that one, mate. Good one," he nods over to Ramses and then extends his arms to Valan. "He is a bit faster, and he likes to drop that four down low. It's like a four and three-quarters," he grins.
     Lifting his hand he waves to the departing Greydon. "I'm heading over to the Salon if anyone wants a drink. See you, Trevelyan. Night, Montague..."

     "Night, Stephen. Give Janet a squeeze for me, oui? I will see you later..."

     "He showed an almost prescient wisdom in not taking my wager," Ramses answers Greydon, matter of fact in his tone. "I won, as he says, but I'd say more because of personal experience than any real lack on his part. He's good. I just don't make the mistake of watching to get a glimpse of his face instead of his sword."
     He glances quickly, sidelong to Valan, a brief lift of eyebrows as if to say 'do you disagree? let's hear your voice on it', then turns back to the man walking away and following with a shrug. Sure. "I don't know what whispers the court's been at this time. Most of the time it's more like shrieking by the time I hear anything, but we all know I never look up except when I'm trying to find a rhyme for orange. Damned English language." A little lie, but a humorous intent; noone of intelligence fails to pay at least a little attention to the ripples at court. Ramses is no exception. "The last rumor I've heard had more to do with bodies being tossed into the Thames. Decapitated."
     He begins stripping himself as well, but he has gone in for no such similar touches as his erstwhile opponent, only once he is in the equipment room; his items? Who would be fool enough to steal them? A locker bangs open, and he takes down a black long-sleeved silk t-shirt, a pair of black jeans. Courtesy of Tesco, probably. The boots - now, the boots are an exception. Not Docs, mind you. Handmade and ancient-looking, lovingly preserved and resoled, showing scars of a thousand encounters with car doors, lamp posts, trash barrels and more fleshly opponents. There is a double row of silver studs down the outside of either boot, with three missing on the left boot. "Now, now - no giving away my weaknesses," Ramses calls to Stephen. "Unless you want me to publish yours and see you perish in the ring the next time!" He sets to dressing with a will and a low whistle - 'Maids Go A-Milking', maybe. Or 'God Save The Queen'. He's off-key either way.

     Greydon replace the saber where he fetched it, and then the mask after, before working out of the the white outfit. Although what is beneath it is just as immaculate, it is simply much less protective. A wife-beater which clings to his strong form, and soon a pair of boxers are revealed. None of this is really paid attention to, though.
     "Wise precaution; although in the heat of the moment, when the blood calls to you, is has never been difficult to ignore the grace and beauty of an opponent-- no matter how interesting they may be otherwise." replies Greydon with an amused chuckle, "As for the whispers? Nothing of terrible interest." He snatches his pants and slips back into them, before glancing back out into the main room where Valan is undressing and calling out to him, "Good. The one who considers himself invincible is the one who will surely fail."

     There is a flash of something gold at the navel as jeans are pulled into place. He pivots to look in the direction of the other two. Others are starting to drift off to the rest of their evening as well. His? Well, he will have to call Edward to see what the rest of his evening holds. If he's in a poker game, then Valan will go dancing.
     He is pulling on his shoes, his pinstriped blazer and glancing to his watch as he listens to the rest. "I am not much for bragging. You Are or You Are Not," his voice carries on it an audible shrug. He is the definition of the modern Frenchman. Laissez-faire and non-committal.

     "Do or do not do. There is no try." Apparently some Brujah can and do quote pop culture. Ramses offers Valan a faintly sardonic smile, then pulls on his jeans. He threads a belt through the denim loops, locking it into place with a thumb. One hand brushes arrogantly back over his hair in that faux-1950s greaser way, though his hair's far too short for it; he's either admiring his reflection, or his scalp itched. "A little bragging doesn't hurt, now and again. Tells people when to fuck off."
     A roll of a shoulder, and he pulls the t-shirt on over his head. So much for fixing his hair, right? Now he ignores it altogether as he sits down and begins pulling on the boots, tightening the laces bit by bit. "Noone's invincible. But a little cockiness helps, as long as it's just a spice and not the main ingredient. Mm. I'll have to write that down. Not good enough on its own, but if I turn it on its ear enough." His fingers twitch absently, and he stands with boots half-laced, reaching into the locker for his jacket, shuffling the heavy naval cloth around until he can get a notebook and a scrap of pencil out. He flips the pages about until he comes to a blank one, jotting it down rapidly.
     "The decapitations might be of interest. Extra eyes will be peering into the night for a while, I'm sure." Which means he'll likely be two of those eyes. But life sucks and then you die and suck some more. Ramses tucks the notebook and stubby pencil away neatly, then turns. "At any rate, gentlemen. I'll be at the clubs tonight, if anyone cares. Salon tomorrow night. After that - depends on whether or not the wind's from the northeast."

     From the locker comes Greydon's shirt, which he slips into, and then the jacket. He slips the tie about his neck, but doesn't bother to do up either his shirt nor set the tie properly; it leaves him with a certain casually disheveled appearance about him. "Decapitations are always of interest, especially ones not disposed of in a more discreet fashion."
     Treveylen wanders out of the equipment room and slips his hands into his pockets, chuckling softly, "I expect to be out dancing tonight, until some pretty little thing becomes attached to my hip, and then finds themselves put to sleep after a lingering taste. Mmn...Life was far more dull years ago when such places didn't exist; it was far more .. difficult, to find entertainment and a good meal."
     He focuses his attention upon Valan for a moment, offering a grin, "Bragging is in poor form; but confidence is far more effective. Especially when one can do it without sounding like a fool, but instead with simple poise."

     "I do not have to brag to tell someone to fuck off," Valan chuckles. "I simply say... fuck off. It is less work." A cigarette is in his mouth and it is lit. His lighter and the pack are stowed away along with his gear. He zips up the red and white bag -- Francais Nationale -- and hoists it on his shoulder, puffing out a bit of scented smoke.
     The information on the decapitations is merely absorbed, filed away for later. It is not the first, nor will it be the last, time he hears about it, he's sure.
     Valan curls a smile around the body of the cigarette. He seems to agree. "A world before discotheques? I have heard this was the case," comes the droll tone. "I am not sure I believe it," he jokes.
     "Bonsoir... a bientot," he offers to you both, a hand lifted for a wave as he heads for the door, his cellphone out. "Hey," he says into the phone as he departs. Such a warm tone. "What are you doing? Is it poker night?"

Posted by rowan at February 19, 2006 09:49 PM