An odd meeting, to be sure. One doesn't expect to pop in to see one's mum and end up in the middle of vampiric conferences; it's given Gwilym something to think about. Several somethings, in fact...
     But what to do about it? Probably nothing. It isn't his life that's at stake - is it?
     It's with strange thoughts and few answers that Gwilym has left Powis - few answers indeed, but his feet know a multitude of paths. He wanders through shadows of three planes, or as he calls it, Here, There, and In Between. His clothing changes as he needs it to; his form, as if it were his clothes, changing from one to another without difficulty. But there is no rest to be found in his worlds tonight.
     No rest... but it is night...
     Is it night in France? Oes, it must be. So there is where I will go. Not seeking answers, but perhaps, a respite from my search...
     Out of an alley, into another alley; Ali Ababwa has nothing on him, and all without any damned annoying monkey. Gwilym files into a certain bar in a certain dark part of Tours. If you are here, he will find you here; and if not, he will get himself a drink and wait a while, and see what happens. Maybe you will hear, and come; or maybe someone will attack him. A bar fight is diversion, too.

     Not even midnight, and I have already killed a man. I stood over his dead body, and I kicked him in the gut again. See what you made me do? What were you thinking? By sunrise, those who need to know will know, the message will be delivered. This is what happens to you if you try to swindle Macarelli.
     I should pin one of my cards to his forehead and have it delivered to my rivals. But it is not the 1600s. The prince would have my head. I like my head where it is.
     The body disappears, pulled into the darkness by loyal hands, and Iovis Macarelli strides away from his evening's correspondence. He navigates the iron railings of the backside of buildings. He moves through the alleys and from one busy boulevard to one that has not seen such business in years.
     There are several old taverns that dot the alleyways and small streets of the riverbanks. The old parts of the city reek as the elderly tend to do. Soiled cobblestones, standing stale water, smoke and alcohol -- these are the perfumes of the docks. It is a wonder anyone can retain a sense of smell, or would choose to, in a place such as this.
     "Your friend is in old taberna," a fellow in the darkness whispers to Iovis. The friend. Ah, amice! Now that you have been here frequently, and in Iovis' company, naturally you are watched. Ha. They should go blind from watching. Iovis reaches out, patting the fellow's shoulder. "Merci, Piero. Oh oui ? Vous l'observez maintenant ? Bonne chance avec ceci!" Iovis laughs sharply, patting the man again and he heads toward the old taberna -- the oldest of the old.
     The door opens and Iovis strides in, wearing his usual black leather jacket and black jeans and black tee shirt (it hides the bloodstains). His hair is wild dark ringlets making an eclipse of a halo around his face.
     "Bon! C'est vous!" the bartender calls out roughly at Iovis' entry. "... Vous me devez pour votre etiquette, Macarelli!"

     He smiles a little - he's barely had time to arrive, to get himself a drink. It isn't as if he's welcome, exactly; he is tolerated. Accepted on sufferance, as your friend, not a local. Not a native. Not someone who belongs here.
     It is a feeling he knows well...
     "Bonne nuit," Gwilym drawls without looking up from his beer. He is wearing dark colours himself - black and navy blue, jeans and shirt and jacket. When in Rome, do as the Romans. When drinking in a cutthroat bar in Tours - well, one can't help being conspicuous. But one makes sure it's the right kind of conspicuous.
     Now he looks up, permits himself his first glance at you, and you receive a smile. Slight, but present, sparkling emerald eyes moving across you. "I think he resents me coming here to find you," Gwilym adds, one hand gesturing slightly towards the bartender. "Should I leave?"

     Iovis' hand comes upon your back, an eager grin onto his face. "No no, my friend. It is my not paying my bill that he resents. Vous obtiendrez votre argent," Iovis tells the bartender, index finger poking the bar. "...Pourquoi vous inquietez-vous? Est-ce que je ne paye pas toujours?" He laughs then, ignoring the bartender, waving at him to pour. "Pour us both whatever my amice here wants. What do you want to drink, amice? Don't order anything that can hide the color of piss," he stage whispers.
     His hand pats again before drawing away. He glances around, his black eyes returning their attention to you, always. "It has been a few weeks. You have missed France? It is good someone does, yes?" He snorts a laugh to that as the bartender frowns and mumbles something about Dago foreigners. It just makes Iovis laugh all the more. "Do not pay him any attention, amice. He is just sore, si? He found out his woman was sleeping with a postal worker in Chinon. Comment humiliant!" Iovis teases the bartender, grinning like a mad, drunk fool. "... Pour vous...."
     "Si vous ne faites pas attention, Macarelli," the bartender grunts, "...vous finirez vers le haut de en dehors de cette taverne pour de bon! Je n'ai pas besoin d'argent ceci mal pour accepter votre merde."
     Iovis all but giggles, hand slapping the bar. He turns to you. "Did you hear that, amice? I think he says my money is no good here. I think this means I don't have to pay my tab!" Sweet delight! Iovis' eyes glitter, no matter how dark, and he pats you on the back again. "Come on, I have better drinks in my own toilet..." He gestures toward the door with a nod and turns on his heels, striding out quickly.

     "Vodka, then," he tells you with a grin. What else will hide the colour with any ease? He smiles, eyes again glinting as he looks to you, to the bartender, to the four walls. Now that he has found you - he has what he needed of this place. Drinks can be had anywhere, and he has little interest in the ambiance.
     He looks at the bartender, eyebrows raised, then gradually he pushes back his chair. You are in a mood, tonight. Elevated above your usual, though only a little exaggerated, perhaps. "Les bons jeunes de matrice, mais eux laissent de plus jolis cadavres. Rappelez-vous la," he calls to the bartender as he moves to follow you out. His smile is opaque; he could hide worlds behind it.
     Yes ... you are in a mood, and so am I... but where yours seems to be a mood of delight, mine is something strange and almost fey...
     Regardless, Gwilym moves to follow you, on your heels with almost as much speed as you - certainly before the bartender can throw anything, be it empty bottle or knife, at your back or his. The door is banged shut behind him.
     "So," Gwilym asks nonchalantly (he knows the shadows have ears), "where shall we go? Shall we go invade a cloister and rob them of their beads?"

     "I never mess with nuns. They are vicious," he smirks. "They could bless me dead at a hundred places. No, amice, I must avoid anything overtly religious. I would not want it to rub off on me." He glances to you, around you. It is a wary survey, vigilant, alert.
     His energy is high, indeed. He has already shed blood, had blood, it moves through him and beats like a drum against the air. Iovis strides quickly, without thought that you should do anything other than keep up with him.
     He doesn't say anything else out in the open. Once he arrives in his own alley, he jumps up, a gymnast's feat, grabbing hold of the fire escape and swinging himself upward and onto the iron landing of the second floor, then third. He pauses by his window. You see him lift it part ways, then reach inside with a hand.
     Disabling a trap, no doubt...
     Iovis shoves the window up and open, swinging himself in as deftly as he scaled the fire escape, leaving it open for you as he switches on the light. "I have not been drinking, but I will drink with you," he notes, finding a bottle of vodka and opening it. "To raise a glass to my friend I have not seen in a while. Of course," he laughs a little, "... it could have only been a day and I wouldn't know. I have a weird notion of time, si?"

     "We both have strange notions of time," Gwilym murmurs. He is following - keeping pace with you, but his energy is at a lower ebb. Where you are active, he is thoughtful. Not melancholy, but immersed in his own slowness of mind. Reacting, rather than acting.
     How could it be otherwise, with my world and yours, running so differently in time? I am sounding, feeling more like my brother than like myself. It is very strange..
     "It has been, I think, about two weeks. Of your time," Gwilym adds, moving to you and rubbing a hand against your shoulder affectionately as you find vodka. "For me, a bit longer. It has been a busy time. My family," he explains, "it has been keeping me very busy, oes? But that seems - seems to have ended, for now. I do not know."
     I am having trouble thinking. Not unusual, around you, but this time, it began before I got here, and not because of you. I wonder how much I should tell you...

Posted by rowan at December 22, 2006 04:55 PM