From here, London is a universe away. People mill about this twisty cobblestone street, chatting and shopping, and passing the day away. The street is packed with shops. Shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon, and more, as far as the eye can see.
A directory floats above the street, changing colors as one passes stores. With each step, a new shop's name lights up, and an arrow points to where the shop is located. All for your convenience, of course.
Off in one direction, however, past Gringotts, is Knockturn Alley, where the brightness of Diagon Alley seems to dim.
Amid the shops and the stores, the magical knick-knacks and accouterments, is a wall that goes nowhere with a blue dragon painted on the surface of the stone. Street art, even in Diagon Alley!
A dragon shimmers at the end of an cul-de-sac and as sturdy boots step onto the stone, primroses, broom and violets spring up between the cracks, peeping out in sudden technicolor. But who's going to notice that here? Great shoulders roll a little, always a stretch needed when popping out of stone, and Davydd ap Owain, fairy Oak King, steps out into the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley...
Just after sunset...
On a Tuesday that would have been utterly random had it fallen in any other year but this one. This year that marks his return shall have an anniversary marked with each torn page from a calendar...
He's neither student nor teacher, prefect nor perfect, not goblin, not elf, not thief. But he's here more frequently than he's not here, particularly in the past few months. The occasional odd visitor appears to have moved in.
Squatter!
Clothed all in navy, dark blue light sweater (while it may be an early spring in England, it's still England) and navy trousers, Docs, and a blue and white striped scarf courtesy of his former girlfriend. He's not about to go tossing any clothes, mind you.
So... if one were looking for a Weasley, where should one first turn? Davydd pauses on the walkway, glancing about as if to find the answer to that question.
Or a Weasley...
Whichever comes first...
Not a Weasley, by god and by country - any god or set of gods, any country you care to name. Moreover, not only is she not a Weasley, she's rather set at present on not becoming a Weasley, and it's in part that which has her present expression so dark and forbiddingly grim. Sabine is unaware, of course, of how thoroughly New this year happens to be, thing Spring happens to promise.
Bearing down along the sidewalk as if she were at least a foot taller than her still somewhat diminutive height, a hundred pounds greater than her closer to wiry than voluptuous form would suggest, Sabine is accompanied by twin shadows that are lengthened and elongated and thickened from her own - Rafe and Paolo, the twin guardians of the Slytherin princess's modesty, honour, virtue and physical self. Or so they anticipate. She pays them no more heed at the moment than if they were toy terriers leashed and muzzled and tied to her skirts.
And she does wear skirts - as is customary when she is away from school, she is garbed in slightly exotic cloth, the swirl and rustle of dark blue shading gradually downwards from her hips to pale green about her ankles in long flowing skirts, a white blouse leaving her shoulders bare but having long full sleeves with very close-fitting cuffs. Braided leather sandals adorn her feet, along with dainty bracelets and anklets on wrists and ankles both. Around her throat there is a weighty collection of necklaces, and hoops jingle with small charms at both ears. The glossy black hair is worn pulled up through a hummingbird-motifed clasp before falling in rippling waves to arch along her sinuous spine.
She has little to say to the twins, it seems, though she's fumbling with a silk-wrapped object drawn from a compartment of her skirts; her grasp is somewhat unsure at the moment for some reason. "We will stop for the herbs," Sabine says curtly, "and if Baxt wills it, perhaps a reading or two. You know what grandmother wishes."
The spring sunlight glimmers on copper-red hair, a curtain of fire constrained and given slender form as a ponytail by a leather band. A dragon-fang earring dangles from one ear and blue eyes are alight with a hint of mischief, as William Weasley, former Curse Breaker and current Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, makes his way towards the Dusty Tomb. Not the most oft-frequented tavern along Diagon Alley, nor as well known-as the Leaky Cauldron, the Tomb was founded by a retired Curse Breaker and is the watering hole for a great many in that profession.
Bill's spirits seem bright, as he whistles under his breath; today, the situation he's found himself entangled within, the way his fate and Sabine Ruthven's seem intertwined, is not weighing on him. Today, Bill Weasley appears to have good news for his friends and former colleagues, and intends to share it.
But fate -- whether you call it Fortune, or Baxt, or by any other name -- is a fickle mistress at times, and between Bill Weasley and the Dusty Tomb are two particular figures whom fate sees fit to put in his path. The one he encounters first is Davydd, just another pedestrian among the many present on Diagon Alley; a chance encounter which would likely go nowhere at first, save that Bill comes to a complete stop beside Davydd as he spots Sabine. His good mood crumbles, and his expression turns more serious, as he prepares once more to encounter another round of the Game.
"Weasley," comes the good-natured rumble of the fairy king's voice. Weren't fairies supposed to be short little gits? Apparently he didn't get the message. Well, and who's telling those stories anyway? Probably the British. All Welshmen are short and drunk. All fairies are small. Bah!
"Just the sort I was looking for, and just the one I was looking for..."
Filled with abject terror yet?
"...I've a proposition for you," Davydd lowers his voice a tic, "...well, actually, it's more of a question than a proposition. The proposition might follow after. Do you have a minute?" All of that trips in Cyrmaeg accenting, quick-quick English on a roll of vowels and consonants.
Call it Operation Fairy Shield. You might be able to block behind him and miss Sabine's attention completely. Is Weasley luck about to change? Well... maybe...
"It won't take long, really. It's sort of a yay-nay thing on your part..." Copper-bronze hair glimmers in the remaining pinkish glow. "Look...I've got to get somewhere a bit.... more shady..." Sunset notwithstanding. "...It's a might early for me... can we talk?"
The Weasley luck, change? Perish the thought. Baxt is not with any of the ill-matched three tonight. Not only has Sabine seen Bill, she's also seen Davydd - and the combination is enough to put the already ill-tempered mood over the edge into the sort of mood that wants to find a blazing row.
She doesn't quite dare go as far as that, of course; grandmother would be most displeased...
It takes only a moment for her to alter her course. While her hands may not be entirely cooperating, her feet are surefooted and nimble as she turns towards the one-man faerie mountain and the individual he's trying to shelter. "Llewellyn. And Weasley. I'd hardly have expected to see the two of you drawn together, but I suppose some metals are more inclined to mix than others." Dark eyes flicker from one set of copper locks to the other, and she comes to a halt, standing with feet slightly apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other with the toe arched en pointe, her hand resting on her hip. It is as natural as it is dramatic. Blame the Carnival for that.
"Has Fate found you yet, Llewellyn? Or are you going to try to utilize Weasley to help you avoid its grasp? He's very good at such meddling, you know."
Rafe and Paolo come to resigned and somewhat weary halts a little behind and to either side of Sabine. They know her moods of old, and the glance they exchange with first each other and then the two red-haired gadje is easily interpreted despite culture and language : thank god it's not us' and 'you poor bastards.
Davydd's approach catches Bill's attention -- and curiosity. "I'm afraid you have the better of me," he replies. "You seem to know my name, but I'm afraid I don't know yours. However, I would be glad to speak with you about your question. Shall we?" And only in part due to the fact that it means he might not have to steel himself for another encounter with Sabine just yet.
Alas, Baxt is not on William's side, as Sabine then makes her approach and greeting. "Ah," Bill observes. "I now see how you know my name... Llewellyn, then?" He turns to Sabine. "Your highness. Your presence is, as always, an element which makes my day that much more memorable."
One way of putting it!
Oh Christ on a stick, can I not get a moment's worth of peace? Is having one day just... go my way... out of the fucking question? Davydd's expression is exasperated momentarily and then he bows. "Your Worshipfulness," and then he straightens, turning to Weasley. "Davydd ap Owain, King of Summer," he offers his hand like a normal person, "Some call me Llywelyn, either works. I'm an acquaintance of your brother Ron, well... acquaintance... I bought him a beer, the kid's got a good heart. No luck with women, honestly," he mutters. "But! Aye... if you've a moment," green eyes sidle over to the Queen of Ill Tempered Conversation but Spot On Divination, "... that'd be super. And... yes, your majesty," again to Sabine, "I invited Fate over for supper. Thanks for the shove, by-the-by. Consummate professional she is," he says to Weasley. "If she weren't spot on..."
He leaves that unsaid...
"So! I have a question... heard you're the man to talk to about such things..." But he's not going to talk about it in the middle of the street presumably...
"Of course it does," Sabine murmurs, a thin-lipped smile given to Bill. Odd how it works - at school, she does her damnedest to avoid him altogether while he pursues her to talk to her. Away from school, she's the last person he wants to see, while she pesters him almost but not quite entirely unlike to a younger sister. "Just as your own presence, Professor, is most enlightening to ever so many. As it happens, I have a message for you."
She pauses for a moment, eyes half-lidded and waiting, watching to see how the Weasley of the red-haired duo takes this. Of course she wants to see him sweat. While she waits, she cants her head to Davydd, ears almost pricking up to points...
"Mm, no luck at all," she agrees, thin-lipped again, "though he has a fondness for golden rings." The green-limned eyes flicker to Bill's face; there's a jab there, aimed at both him and herself at once, and she looks back to the self-proclaimed King.
"Highness," Sabine tells Davydd with mock-placidity. "My grandmother yet lives, and as such, I cannot become a queen. I am in no hurry to overtake her. But yes - my Sight is exceptional, and it is most kind of you to state the fact honestly. Unfortunately, there are as ever a few restrictions because of it - I think that today I shall place a further restriction upon myself, and eschew the company of those with red hair. It is a sign of ill favour, after all."
A sweet, too sweet smile is offered to both men, so much older than her - one by eight years and some, the other by eight hundred years and some. Eight or eight hundred, it's all the same when you're fifteen or sixteen. She turns with a small hand signal to the two young men who dog her footsteps.
"This seems to be my day for messages," Bill observes, arching one eyebrow slightly at Sabine. "And here I fear I have nothing half so interesting or exciting to offer you in return. Perhaps you would care to accompany my companion and I to somewhere shadier, as was his preference?"
Bill glances over apologetically at Davydd, and adds to Sabine, "After all, it appears you two both are already acquainted." Poor Davydd. "And, after all, I would be a poor representative of my kumpania indeed if I did not invite the woman to whom I am quite likely betrothed along for a conversation."
He glances to Davydd, and makes a graceful and almost courtly bow to the man, perhaps as if needling Sabine ever so slightly. "My apologies... I trust you do not object to her presence, at least long enough to ensure the message is delivered?"
You poor bastard. You poor...
...poor...
...bastard...
And here I thought Ron had troubles. Davydd looks between the two and his expression is immediately warm and blithe. "Not at all, she's more than welcome. Least I can do to repay her for her guidance with the universe's messages. Besides," he rumbles, "...who'm I to deny the presence of the betrothed?" You poor bastard. He gives Weasley a pat on the arm and turns to Sabine.
The smirk is amused for certes. "Do us a favor then," Davydd rolls on, "...and better our luck with your presence, princess. If we're marked for misfortune, it's all the same to us," a roll of his shoulders, "...but I don't think mercy's ever gone out of season..."
He turns back to Bill, taking both Weasley and Gypsy into his gaze and attention, a pivot to each and he motions them to go ahead. "Shall we?"
Most likely Ron does have troubles of his own, what with pining for a girl who pines for a boy who pines for his father's approval - but that's life, innit? Sabine glances back over her shoulder, one eyebrow upraised, then makes another gesture to Rafe and Paolo.
"You may go."
There is no offered protest from the two young gypsy men, though they give her a look and a half apiece, which she meets with steel-trimmed gaze and will of her own before she then turns back to the two red-haired men. Telepathy, maybe. Or just long acquaintance, and knowing which battles are worth fighting and which were lost before swords ever got picked up.
"I am ever noted for my kindness, gentle presence and merciful ways," Sabine remarks as she steps towards the two, offering a narrow triangular smile which doesn't rise to her eyes. Yes, and she's an excellent liar with shockingly unblushing face. "I will lift the ill fate awaiting you for a short while only - but the two of you must dice with Fate, for I may not linger without being able to claim to my grandmother that I have read my cards for someone in the procedure."
She doesn't touch Bill, nor does she touch Davydd, though a pass of one dainty hand makes the cards disappear. There's a rustle of her skirts which suggests that her hands are still unsteady in the doing...
"By your leave, gentlemen. Do walk ahead, and I shall follow in my elders' footsteps and watch how they compose themselves." Sabine smiles again, sweetly, one hand on a fold of her skirts. "I will endeavor to be properly engaging company for the two of you."
"Indeed," Bill replies to Sabine with a faint smile. "The very angel of the Ruthven kumpania, bringing mercy and good fortune to all." There's something in the smile which doesn't completely reach the young professor's blue eyes, however; there's a bit of evident emotional turmoil and trouble in the blue Weasley gaze.
Turning back to Davydd, he offers the man a slight grimace -- he caught the smirk and its implications well enough -- and mutters, "It's a very long story." Then he falls into step with his new acquaintance, lost in silent thought. Whatever good news he had to carry to his former colleagues at the Dusty Tomb is long since chased from his mind.
The immediacy of ducking into shady shelter has passed for the most part, but still...if they're going to be ...enjoying the presence of Her Worshipfulness, they're going to need a drink. "Hope no one objects to a pint up the pub," he pronounces. Scarf thrown over a shoulder, copper-bronze hair short and choppy -- all he's missing is an armful of books and Davydd'd blend right in.
So, the question perhaps begs to be asked: Which came first, the Weasley or the Oak King?
Davydd leads the way to the Cauldron. Nothing seems far in Diagon, that's the beauty of it, and he's there, holding the door open for the Breaker and his Gypsy-Would-be-Bride. "Most stories worth tellin' are usually long, I find. And funny you should mention it. I've quite the story for you..."
Allowing the two men to walk ahead, Sabine follows a few dainty footsteps behind - not too far behind, though. They aren't slipping away from her. Though there's something in the way she moves which suggests an earnest sublimate desire to slip away on her own account...
Sabine says nothing for now. Perhaps she's devoting all of her attention and energy to listening. Or perhaps she's just biding her time - waiting for the right time to twist the knife. Or to deliver her message and then be freed of duty - and, coincidentally, able to have a bit of wander-off on her own, off of the leash. That thought makes her smile privately and to herself, the edge of the expression visible as she steps through the door held for her by the Oak King himself.
"Most Curse Breakers are fond of stories," Bill replies, as he follows along. The red hair perhaps looks familiar to him, but while all Weasleys are redheads, not every redhead is a Weasley; doubtless the question does not occur to him. "Oft times, things which have been forgotten in every other way are only remembered in a story."
He glances back over his shoulder at Sabine for a moment, expression now deeply thoughtful. However, whatever has crossed his mind is not shared; the Weasley son keeps his confidences to himself for the moment. Turning back to Davydd instead, he adds, "And any story is improved over an ale."
"Well now," comes the elongated rumble of a pleased Welshman, "...that's the truth if I've ever heard it." And there are always several versions, but this one remains true: ale improves nearly everything. It makes most stories more interesting and most women more attractive. As the two youngsters pass before him, Davydd lets the door go, slipping in, hands in his pockets and a whistle.
The Leaky Cauldron does an alright turn. It may be no Black Jack Davy's, but it has its moments. And now is one of them. Looks like a forest in here with all the pointy hats of off-duty witches and warlocks. But there are tables available and chairs plenty even so. To one such Davydd turns, removing his scarf as he pulls out a chair.
"Curses and stories," Davydd says, eyes on the table for a moment before they lift to Weasley. "It's like you're reading my mind," and his lips twist in a smirk. "I've come to talk about a bit of both..." And then he takes a seat.
Promptly and wordlessly, Sabine pulls out a seat for herself, giving both men mutely suspicious glances. She sinks onto the edge of her chair, crossing her ankles daintily under its edge and shifting back in.
For a moment, the dark pupils contract sharply, a nictating membrane of Sight opening as she looks from one man to the other. It's gone a moment later, and it does not prompt her to speak, just to scowl slightly for a moment, expression turning sullen, and she rests her hands in her lap.
"I'd like a butterbeer, please." That's more politeness than perhaps either man has come to expect from her. It's all she says though, and restlessly, Sabine shifts, pulling out a handful of silver coins from somewhere in her skirts, sorting them out with a fingertip on the table's surface, turning the coins so that their faces all are upwards. Then she nods, satisfied by them, and slides them away and out of sight.
The young Curse Breaker takes a seat across from Davydd, eying the man curiously. "It sounds like you have quite a story, indeed, if it involves curses." One hand goes surreptitiously to the dragon-fang earring he wears, lightly inscribed with runes; every Curse Breaker has their own tools, and this is the heart of Bill's kit.
The earring has bound into it a number of pre-prepared charms, counter-hexes and other spells, ready to be released...but the most core part of this tool Bill has invested so much time and energy into is that when held lightly between the tips of two fingers, it can detect a number of varieties of the more common curses used on traps and in tombs; Bill normally uses it to watch for traps when on a Breaking run, and he seems to turn to it out of habit now.
"If your story is a long one, though, perhaps we should allow Miss Ruthven to deliver her message; I am certain she does not wish to linger and listen to our idle chatter." Perhaps Bill's offering Sabine an out, or perhaps offering a subtle warning to Davydd that it may be unwise to give Sabine too much information to be held over his head.
"Ladies first," nods Davydd, "...and butterbeers all around..." he says, rising again. He'll do the ordering and the carrying himself. He's not so good at levitation. Well, he shouldn't lie. He can't levitate a feather held up by the wind.
A look passes from one red-head to the other. Smart. Last thing I need is an armed Sabine. She's bad enough when she has a rose held between her teeth and covered in olive branches with hats made of white dove feathers. I'd hate to see her when she has a knife, or some useful bit of information.
"Well, it's a story told by a Welshman, so it'll have some length to it after all," the mouth makes a comet-streak of a smile and he glows golden with it. He ain't summer for nothing. "I'll be right back..."
Her message is none of his business. He moves to the Leaky Cauldron's bar, copper-colored coins, octagonal, spilling on the surface of it.
There's a singularly flat look delivered in Bill's direction as he warns Davydd; Sabine is no fool. She recognizes a warning when it's given, and she knows the meaning of it. "There are ways of binding my tongue, Weasley," she spits out, even as Davydd rises with orders in mouth.
However, there's really no point to arguing it; she just isn't in the mood. If anything, her expression closes itself off by incremental degrees; by the time that Davydd has risen from his chair, her eyes are no longer narrowed; by the time he's speaking, the slight purse of her lips has smoothed away. By the time he's turning from the table, there is no emotion left in her face, and by the time he's stepped towards the bar, her eyes have become dead, revealing nothing of what she might be thinking or feeling - as if by the appearance, all sensation might also be banished.
One hand crosses to rest on the opposite forearm, and she turns that blank, empty gaze onto the erstwhile Cursebreaker. "Three messages, as it so happens - it's convenient how so many find in me so eager and capable an errand girl, I suppose. The first and most important by my weight is from my grandmother. She has told me," and she swaps languages fluidly, from English into Romanes as easily as breathing, "to inform you that she is aware of your dilemma, and the Ruthven kumpania does stand ready to accept compromise; however, as she did inform His Highness, Prince Ferrick of the Marshall kumpania, any compromise must be one which maintains and upholds still the dignity and sanctity of both kumpanias."
Perhaps there's more reason than the surface ones for the girl's utter lack of emotion given. Her voice lilts mellifluously over the words, reciting them formally and without pause or hesitation where someone involved in the issue might react. "If you would find it necessary to discuss the matter further, she will place an emissary at your disposal; however, of course, I am not to act upon my own behalf in this matter. The other messages are first, from Professor Dresden, who hopes that you are well, and reminds you that Madam Whitshire wishes to see you tomorrow night at her shop; and if you would be willing, please do pick up that see dee that she ordered in London, should you get a chance."
She has no idea what a 'see dee' might be, and from the rigid posture and expression, cares even less, fingers curving around her forearm as she speaks. "The last message is from Hannah Abbot, to inform you that she has been elected Madam Chairwoman of the Bill Weasley Fan Club, and wishes to know your date of birth, favourite colour, and preferred food; as she knows that I am still your charge in some way, she asked that I relay the message to you."
No doubt Sabine had reasons of her own for agreeing; she looks up, smiling that tight, narrowly triangular smile at Bill, sliding her hands further down into her lap, fingers still pressing tightly into the opposite forearm.
For a long moment, Bill regards Sabine, and then nods once. "I am honored by your grandmother's trust. I would like to speak to you in private, sometime before too very long. We...have had a rocky beginning, but several things have occurred to me. Until we sort out our situation, I would prefer not to drag others..." A meaningful glance towards Davydd, "...too much into our own matters. As for the messages, I will meet with Dresden and Whitshire as planned, thank you for the reminder. And if Miss Abbott approaches you about this again, you are free to inform her that you are not her messenger girl." A slight smile. "We may not always see eye-to-eye, but I believe there are a few things we can agree on, nonetheless."
He glances over to Davydd at the bar, and then back to Sabine with a bit of a grimace. "As for the rest... you know my date of birth already, as I know your kumpania has done my charts by now. Favorite color is blue, favorite food... well, I'm a Weasley, as long as it's reasonably edible I'll accept it. I'm particularly fond of fresh sourdough bread... a taste I picked up at outdoor markets, I'm afraid." He pauses, eyeing Sabine for a moment, and then adds, "Dare I ask how you knew our Welsh friend over at the bar?" Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that /is/ a topic change.
Nice footwork...
And nice handiwork, the balance of three butterbeer pints. He's an old hand -- by some accounts very old indeed -- at carrying pints. Eight centuries of tavern hopping weren't completely wasted. What's frightening is how all taverns look alike at the end of the day. It's like a universal constant...
Beer watered down...
Prices too high...
All three balanced and in hand, Davydd glances over to the couple made in hell... ah... purgatory...ah... screw it... hell it is then....
The expression remains unchanged as Bill speaks to her. Rocky beginning? Their beginning had stones the size of ... something very large indeed. Buildings have been smaller than some of these rocks. The divide that Sabine tries to keep open has a resemblance to the Grand Canyon...
"I will inform my grandmother that you have received my message and are considering it with due weight. As you know, my schedule is somewhat limited, Professor. If you wish to speak with me, I shall find time to do so in due course." Her voice is flat as paper and much more opaque. The press of her fingers is more telling, faint droplets of dark red just barely mottling the white sleeve of her blouse underneath that gripping touch.
There's a single nod given in receipt to the other information - Whitshire will have her meeting, check, 'see dee', check, and Abbot can piss off, check. "I would have expected your favourite colour to be gold," she remarks aloofly, features held into a mask. Sourdough - well, she quite likes sourdough herself, and can't open her mouth on that without damning her own tastes. Her lips press closed for an instant.
Sabine casts a dark glance to the bar, avoiding Bill's gaze as he asks the question. "Welshmen have a way of getting around, your highness. Davydd Llewellyn is no different in that than any." There's a moment's consideration as to how she wants to approach answering the question, or if she wants to leave it at that. Finally, she settles on a faint, slanting smile. "Since you seem to have misgivings as to my ability to hold my tongue, Professor - why don't you ask him yourself? If he wants you to know, then he'll tell you himself. I did consult the cards for him at one point - but you know full well that the results of that I'll not reveal without his permission."
There are bargains one must fulfill with Fate - some real, some implied, some assumed - and some assumptions are only illusions to be maintained in front of the clients... Which this is, she's certainly not going to make Bill's life easier about by just telling him.
"Gold is my career," Bill points out. "Not what I love. If you think I'm into Breaking for the money, then you know less of me than you might believe. I am a Breaker because of the challenge; as a Breaker, I can prove myself, carve my own path, without worrying about what others think or expect. The challenge of solving the puzzles, of proving I'm up to the task... and of bringing home things which haven't been seen since ancient days. Merlin's journal. Ancient magical Egyptian amulets. Those are what fascinate me, Ruthven... not the gold."
A faint smile. "I'm surprised, honestly. I would have thought you would feel the same... not that you would look at the gold as the primary goal." But then, spotting the returning Davydd. "But it would seem your Welsh friend is returning, and perhaps this topic is best covered another time."
"I dallied as long as I could," comes the smooth rumble of his voice, fiery eyebrows cocking up and giving the two of you a knowing look. "But Merlin's journal caught my attention... butterbeer, dear lady," he says to the young girl. Warmly even. Perhaps fatherly in a touch. He knows something about difficult young women.
Indeed, he does...
"Weasley," he says, butterbeer set down before him, and then he takes a seat with an exhale. The moment between this triad of trouble is weighty with a story still pendulous. But, first thing's first...
A drink, dear god, for allowance...
"I won't keep you long, sounds like you have business of your own," Davydd lifts both hands, "...and it's none of my affair. And really, there's nothing more that Miss Ruthven there," dark green eyes take her in, "...could do that the curse has not already done. She may even be able to provide insight..." Eyebrows lift.
Stranger things have happened...
"I'm under a curse, young Weasley, and you... you may just be the one who can help me. Maybe... you're supposed to be the one who helps me." And maybe the Weasley Curse, if one truly exists, will be lifted when its progenitor's curse is lifted.
"The curse is over eight-hundred years old, eight-centuries entrenched. Sleeping Beauty has nothing on me, I fear..."
"Crimson and gold, your highness - the gold of colour, not of material wealth. Gold does not necessarily mean greed." Sabine's dark eyebrows arch upwards in a slow sardonic slide, and her hand finally lifts from her forearm, ignoring the faint spots of blood still marking her sleeve.
She'll deal with that later.
"I am sure there will be time enough to discuss matters at another time," she answers Bill coolly, then turning towards the returning Oak King, "and while His Majesty and I are acquainted, I would not describe us as friends. He Knew me, and as such, I returned the compliment - that is all."
All very cryptic, isn't it? Or maybe not. "My thanks," she answers Davydd, lifting the butterbeer with one hand, leaving her other hand in her lap, to minimize anyone's chance of seeing the droplets of red upon the snow. She falls quiet, listening, with some mild surprise - she's not being evicted?
This is new...
"And you don't look a day over thirty," Bill replies with a wry smile. Then, sobering, he adds, "It sounds as though you do have quite a story, at that... the longest-lasting curses are the most powerful, and the most powerful curses tend to be those with the most tangled or interesting stories behind them."
Leaning back in his chair, the young Breaker regards Davydd curiously, as if trying to decide what it is about this man -- the King of Summer, he introduced himself as. Surely he can't actually be faerie? After a moment, he glances at Sabine as well, as if trying to judge how these two know each other.
"Time's a funny creature," Davydd says, swallowing a bit of the butterbeer. Likes it because it's sweet. Fairies have a sweet-tooth like sharks have an appetite. "I'm not a day over thirty... but I've seen other kings and queens come and go. Eight centuries ago, a newly crowned Oak King and great prince of Wales," he gestures to himself, "...that's me... was making his appointed rounds on the Welsh Marches when he was abducted and attacked by a creature named Mithras..."
Mithras, a Roman god. Mithras, a Roman general. Mithras, a Roman vampire. Maybe all three were one. Cult and curse both...
"I do not know if he is such a one that you might have heard of him in your work here. He is a creature such as... he brings death," Davydd explains. "And that is his curse. His entire existence is Death and blood. For a King of Summer, the Oak King of the fairies not to see sunlight... it is a heavy curse." Davydd looks from his beer to Weasley. "It becomes heavier by the year. I wish to be rid of it. I have yet to meet the magician who has been able to dent it, but you... Curse Breaker... maybe it is meant for you."
There is a smile suddenly and a glance to Miss Ruthven. "Only you could perhaps tell us this for sure." Another swallow of the butterbeer and Davydd exhales. "I wish to end my exile from my kingdom, and I want to be rid of this darkness. The taint of the ..." he glances around. He does not wish to say the name of the creature. It is bad luck. "... nightwalker..."
The gypsy girl says nothing, gives away nothing, the silver rings through her ears chiming softly as she lifts the great mug one-handed to her lips. The lips part, and she swallows, eyes half-closed as she listens. Bill's curious gaze receives only that same faint sardonic arch of eyebrows and nothing more in response...
She listens without judgment made, though there is a sharpening of her attention, an alertness as she listens to Davydd speak, and she glances to the Oak King, not answering the half-question as to prophecy.
I undercharged you," Sabine comments to Davydd. She takes another sip.
A very, very long pause, as Bill considers this; as near as he can tell, he's just been asked to cure vampirism. Further, vampirism in a fae subject, which is a matter which, as far as he knows, no one has addressed. "I see. I can certainly understand why you would wish to free yourself from this, but..."
The young Breaker -- very young, in comparison -- pauses, and leans forward slightly as he regards Davydd. "Why is it that you think specifically I might be the one to do it? I'm a Curse Breaker, yes, but usually those curses are on artifacts or traps in tombs. And while I'm a good Breaker, dealing with a cure for... your affliction... seems more along the lines of something which a specialist at St. Mungo's might be able to help with, or perhaps someone who is as well-learned as Headmaster Dumbledore." He pauses, and then adds, "Since you are seeking me out specifically, I presume there is a reason you think I have a chance at success."
Fiery eyebrows lift in an arch, twin comets marking every expression with an omen -- such as it is for Those Who Are Cursed to find special significance in everything, their every expressions not immune -- Davydd leans in as well, vibrant blue dragons and flora on his wrists visible in the motion. "It may very well take one as learned as Headmaster Dumbledore. Worse still, it might take..." He leaves it there...
Hanging...
Mentioning Valdemort is rather like screaming Macbeth! in a theater. Some names are curses of their own.
"But you, young Weasley, though not the youngest by far," lips begin to form a smile, "... are a part of this story, unbeknownst to you. You see, your family's association with dragons has been well-earned." And perhaps some of its luck. "I'm the old oak tree," Davydd croons as he sits back, "...of which the Weasleys are one branch. And that is why... you... particularly you... may be able to answer all our woes..."
A cursed progenitor. Things might begin to make sense...
Honestly...
The Rom girl's eyes are half-closed, heavy-lidded, with a sleepy alertness behind the barrier of the fringe of dark eyelashes. A glittering dark gaze moves from Davydd to Bill and then back, consideringly - measuringly. At first, she doesn't speak, just shifting her position with a negligent chiming of bracelets and earrings.
When finally she does speak, her voice is meditative - as contemplative in its tone as her gaze is, true emotion hidden behind the lightness of her veil.
"I knew there was undoubtedly a reason why I instinctively disliked you on principle."
A long pause, and then Bill closes his eyes for a moment. "Aah," he replies, almost lightly. "Well, I suppose that means there really is some Welsh blood in the family, as well as Scottish." Leaning back in his chair, he regards Davydd more carefully for a long, silent moment.
"Well, it's true that many curses require someone of shared blood to break them. I imagine a descendant would qualify... but the affliction of which you speak is not a normal curse, at least in any case that I've ever heard of it."
He glances over at Sabine with a Look, and then back to Davydd. "There might, however, be something which could help at the Marshall Lorehouse." The famous, or infamous, stockpile of artifacts and manuscripts found by members of the Marshall gypsy kumpania on their travels, a location concealed from outsiders.
"We tend to get around," Davydd mulls out, cocking his head over to look at Sabine. You're such a naughty little princess. One of these nights, someone's going to decide to give you a right spanking.
With an exhale, Davydd looks again to the Breaker Weasley and nods, half-smiling, half-frowning. An existence of halves. "This is no ordinary curse. Others have tried, and failed. Fairy and human alike. The other option would be waking the creature and killing him...but ...to do so... is hardly advisable." Green eyes widen and a forest sparkles within, deep woods pierced by shafts of light.
"I would appreciate...and handsomely reward," a glance to the Gypsy Queen, "...any assistance that is given. Regardless of the outcome," Davydd adds. Maybe those legends about fairy generosity are not overblown fairy...tales. Pardon the expression.
Giving Bill the same nonchalant look and turning a look of utter insouciance upon Davydd, the expression on Sabine's face could best be described as 'what?' Aloof pseudo-innocence at its best, with just the faintest hint of sulking pout before it's then swept away in attentive disinterest once more.
"There is, of course," Sabine observes, "my Sight. I do not know whether it would be of any use, Weasley." Well. She doesn't know Davydd's last name for sure, does she? "But it has been of use to many in the past. Enough use," she smiles thinly, without humour, an expression as sharp and brittle as sheeted ice, "for some to wish my death over it."
Sabine gives a little shrug, glancing to Bill aloofly. "It is true that the Marshalls are loremasters and lorekeepers. My own ... family has other avenues which we pursue."
"I'd hope so," Bill replies to Davydd with a bit of a wry grin. "After all, with your revelation about our family ties, you've just handed Miss Ruthven here all she needs to begin calling me a faerie." And doubtless not mean it in the complimentary supernatural way. "I'd hope there'd be a reward, to make up for that."
As he concludes his joking, Bill's blue gaze focuses on Davydd once more, turning serious. "I have to admit this is more like wizarding medicine than a normal curse-breaking, though. From what I know about... this malady... it changes you physically and mystically, seating itself in your blood. Even the worst curses woven around someone can be undone, given time, effort and skill..." A brief glance at Sabine. "...but this is more like a mystic disease or infection, making itself part of you. So I would not want to promise anything and get your hopes raised too high."
After a moment, he turns back to Sabine with a nod. "I won't deny that your Sight could be of great help here, your highness, if you would be willing to lend aid."
The great fae git, as some call him -- that's King Git to you -- turns in his seat and regards the young woman. "The greatest gifts, your highness, come at the greatest cost. But I say," looking to you both, "...we toss our coins in the center of the table and... see what happens. Nothing ventured, nothing gained..."
There's loss plenty to go around as it is...
The butterbeer's finished with a long drink and Davydd sets it down with a kingly flair. Henry Tudor (another Welshman) has got nothing on him. He casts a sidelong, mischievous look at Bill. "Fairy's not such a bad thing. It's poncin' fairy you have to mind out for." He winks. "Besides," Davydd rolls out, "...only a man with utter confidence, not only in himself and his own strength but, indeed, his own virility, could bear it with a smile, Weasley, so look you to that..."
It seems decided and he seems decided upon it. "The rewards will be great. I won't get into specifics now. But... suffice to say...it will be worth the effort." He seems to quiet for a time. Not just in not speaking but in some aspect of the man. "The... affliction, condition... I am fortunate indeed that I do not have to... feed it?" He looks to you both to see if you follow. Miss Garlic 2014 likely does. Gypsies always seem to know about these things. "I am fortunate that he, upon the attack, was shocked to be drinking blood as magical as any the Grail could hold, and as pure. It allowed me to survive. And it kept the curse to... only the required sleeping. Like Sleeping Beauty," he grins, "... I shut my eyes at dawn and do not rise until dusk..."
"Why on earth would I make critical remarks upon the topic of your virility, Professor? Your fan club would never believe me, after all." That's Sabine, of course, giving Bill a dry, almost droll sort of look. "As well, I do not need people's pity," there's a refined little snarl showing neat, even white teeth, "and considering our potentially impending betrothal, conceding to the world that you prefer the company of men to my own... well. I would sooner allow them to know that you are indeed a Marshall, and all that it implies."
The Marshall men do have a tendency to be known for their ... women. And everybody else's women as well.
The gypsy princess turns to regard Davydd again, while still speaking to the young Cursebreaker. "The Oak King speaks my language better than you do, Prince of Marshalls. He knows that I will accept his offer - if he pays me in fair coin, well. A bargain is a bargain, is it not?" She smiles coolly, then shrugs, turning to address the tattooed majesty.
"There are a number of things which it could mean," Sabine answers thoughtfully. "However, while perhaps killing the progenitor of your curse is unwise - have you any of his materiele?"
"Oh, I know what price your Sight, Princess of Ruthvens," Bill replies. "But I also know that you reserve the right to refuse a Seeing for one at your discretion. It seems only right to first determine whether or not you're willing, does it not? As for the price I would be willing to pay for your aid..."
He pauses, and then his tone turns oddly serious and grave, as he watches Sabine closely. Each word, while no louder than those before, has the weight of a mountain behind it. "My price would be a journey to the Marshall Lorehouse, your highness, to claim any one piece of lore there of your choosing."
The expression is rather extraordinary. Davydd ap Owain appears slightly disgusted and perhaps a little mortified. "His materiele?" Drawing back, a glance to Weasley, the Oak King smiles a vicious smile. "In the ..." pause for expletive -- must not cuss in front of children, "... ground, where he has been for the past eight centuries. There's more ...materiele... from Jupiter in my pocket than there is of Mithras on this earth."
Another pause.
"And there's no f..." Davydd stops himself again. "...way that I'm going to dig him up to get it. No... we have to do it without Mithras' assistance." Davydd smirks. "Or any of his... personal effects..."
One eyebrow arches upwards at Bill's offer, though it only poorly conveys the amount of shock and surprise that this offer must indubitably cause. The Ruthvens and the Marshalls, while they tolerate each other, are hardly what anyone would call close visiting terms. Sabine nods slowly. "Very well, Prince William. I will See upon this topic once for you in exchange for the payment you describe."
There is a sudden reserve to the girl as she draws back in her seat slightly, bringing her glass to her chest, cradling it protectively. Sabine's gaze seems to be trying to drill holes through Bill, weighing him and measuring him before Davydd's words finally draw her attention over to him instead.
"Then we will make do, Your Majesty," comes the careful answer. "However, often it is of great help to have a direct tie to the curse's originator, for the undoing. For the Seeing ... I may require more of you than a deck of cards. It is unusual for me to need to cast my Sight back quite so far as you - and at present, the magic which I use," she shrugs, "well." She doesn't seem to want to finish that sentence.
Bill meets Sabine's gaze levelly, an only vaguely readable challenge in those blue eyes. Perhaps he's daring Sabine to read him, and face what she sees...or perhaps he's simply got his back up when being visually assessed by a Slytherin.
Either way, he remains silent, and turns his attention back to Davydd after several minutes.
Do you guys need to get a room?
Sit down with a counselor?
Davydd looks at the young gypsy squarely. "We will have to make do with what we have." There is no way he will go close enough to this Mithras to get any of his .... materiele.
Fuck that...
"So... what will you require of me," Davydd rumbles, arms folding against sizable chest and he leans back in his chair, looking to the both of you in turns.
Whatever she does or doesn't see (or, as the case may be, See), Sabine doesn't maintain her scrutiny of Bill for very long, before she's suddenly switched her gaze back to the not-vampire faerie king.
"Very well," she tells Davydd coolly, "the first thing I would recommend is that we not do this here. In the middle of a pub is hardly the ideal place to begin Seeing things of this nature; there are distractions and there may be those who would wish you harm who really wouldn't object to listening to whatever it is that I tell you."
"The next thing," Sabine adds, with a slightly sour expression, "is that whatever other payment you offer, during the reading you must offer me some token of physical payment - silver is often preferred. It binds the reading, and opens the way. To read for free is to invite very bad fortune to all concerned." She glances to her forearms for a moment, then shrugs. "I may ask for certain words, or perhaps hair or blood, to aid the Sight. Prince William may observe during this if you wish, so that you both know that I am using it solely for the course of my Seeing."
Bill seems to nod, in agreement with Sabine's suggestion that the public pub is not the best place for this discussion. Otherwise, however, he falls silent for the moment; Weasley he may be by blood, but he's also a Marshall by oath and obligation, and he respects the sense of ritual to a reading. The reading is for Davydd, and therefore it must be Davydd's choice of venue.
"I will request a night... as night it must be," Davydd says, "...to meet with you. Three nights from now." Not tonight. "I will trust the location to Weasley. As I would not imagine you could leave the grounds immediately surrounding the school." A pause and he smiles. "Otherwise, I'd simply have you over to the castle and be done with it. I would, however, hate it if I were the reason someone were expelled..."
Davydd unfolds his arms and appears to be ready to take his leave. A hand lands softly on the tabletop. "We are agreed?" He looks to you both. "Three nights. Location to be chosen by the Breaker. I will have silver in my pockets..."
"His Highness is in charge of me," Sabine answers, again sourly. This chafes, it seems. "If it must be your castle, then very well - otherwise, perhaps ..." She turns to look to Bill. "The woods, perhaps. In any event." She looks back to Davydd. "Three nights' time," she agrees. "Between then and now, I shall prepare - as should you. Save your strength. Do nothing to distance or detach yourself from your past."
"The woods," Bill replies, nodding in agreement. Whatever silent challenge passed between the young professor and the gypsy girl, he shows no sign of it now. Instead, he leans forward to regard Davydd. "And it has been a unique honor to meet you, Your Majesty," he offers, with a slightly amused but nonetheless respectful edge to his tone. After all, it's not every day a fairy king shows up, asks for your help, and explains he's your ancestor.
At least, one should hope it's not every day. It could make for a very confusing life if it were.
Davydd smirks. He'd have a comment if she were legal tender. But she's not and he's nothing if not a gentleman.
That's not supposed to be funny...
With a growing smile, the mountain of Wales rises from his seat. "And an honor to meet you." He looks at you both, and seems to mean it to both of you, such things spoken without specific name reference. "Three nights... we'll pull up a bit of tree together and see what the universe has to say." A pause and now he turns to Gypsy Princess. "Again..."
Posted by rowan at March 14, 2004 08:39 PM
