multiversallogs | an entire branch of argos [open]

Who: Ivan and YOU, yes you, get over here
What: Gambling and dropping eaves
Where: Mafaton mainly, though if you have something else in mind, hit me
When: Once Ilde is out of the hospital (and he is sure Sonja knows where she is; I imagine they're just handing her off, now).
Notes:
Warnings: None as yet.

Ilde has been released, none the worse for wear. (Physically at least.) But Ivan can't quite leave it at that. It shouldn't have happened, and it especially shouldn't have happened the way it did. He is patient, but not endlessly so.

Anyone who knows him well (in this, Mitchell, Daniil,... maybe Hal, but he doesn't expect to run into any of them tonight) can tell he's had more blood tonight than strictly willing donors could have provided. He's still and calm with the clarity that follows a proper kill. A death. Just one, and he was careful. He smiles, and makes idle chit-chat as necessary, but mostly Ivan listens, as he plays.

He appears to take note of nothing. He takes note of everything.

And always, even if he has killed tonight - carefully - there's the hum in the back of his head that comes from constantly depriving himself here. He's not gotten to the point where he has to be chained in Valhalla's basement. Nowhere near But he'd be lying if he said he didn't understand how Hal had gotten there. He's used to satisfying himself and then moving along. And even in a city as large as Baedal, the lack of that option is beginning to wear.

Still, for most who look tonight, there's a detached, sarcastic but not unpleasant Ivan present at his usual tables, winning a little more than he loses, and seeming not to care either way.

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Deacon's existence is one where work and play habitually cross into each other's territories. Despite the fact he is relatively young and irresponsible and arrogant, he also hardly ever goes places without a degree of purpose, without a measure of control over how he spends his precious evenings. One such thing is entering the usual haunts of Mafaton in visitations that are as official as they are random.

There probably isn't much in the way of business, though, that has Deacon inviting himself to where Ivan has freshly finished a game, a pale hand out to take the back of a seat that a sore loser has left empty just next to him. Deacon turns it around and straddles comfortably, a half-finished cigarette already smoking away between his fingers.

He tugs an ashtray closer. "Casually cheating people out of their hard earned dimes, chief?"

Ivan smiles lazily. "I professionally cheat people out of their dimes, thank you." He'd assure his partners he's not cheating, but as he's very sure some of them are, he doesn't see the point. "Are you here to give me an official reprimand, or are you spectating as a private citizen?"

He really is glad to see Deacon.

"No law against that," Deacon says, flicking ash off cigarette by way of punctuation. "That I've read about, anyway." If he is noticing anything different about Ivan, well-- it's difficult to tell because Deacon tends to look at people like he is noticing either nothing or everything. Vampires eat.

Vampires get hungry. It's the joke. "I'm off-duty."

"Stay a bit, then. You could probably even talk someone to dealing you in eventually, if you'd like." Ivan's hand is good, though this is a game that's so far rested on as much or more bluffing than luck. "I've a bit more time playing before I wander into the night."

"Tempting."

Deacon is okay at cards; anyone who has a handle on maths, a taste for gambling, and knows the rules is okay at cards. The poker face part of it gets a little old by the time all your buddies are vampires, in Deacon's opinion.

"I mean, you look like you're having a grand time."

"It keeps Ilde in ridiculous jewelry." ...not really. "And I suspect you work too much."

If it were anyone else, Ivan would probably have won some grumbles, but Deacon's position means that he's more or less known. And for Ivan to be casually friendly with him does no harm to either man in the public opinion.

Some money is pocketed out, then, a buy in cast onto the table as the cards make their rounds circling the table. "I like my work," Deacon counters, and it's almost convincing -- it'd be hard to detect sincerity, anyway, he always seems a little worn down to edges. "I'll tell you that the gore tax kills me, though. Almost makes me miss the fucking masquerade."

Ivan smiles, almost absent. "I know what you mean. Did I ever tell you there was a group back home who decided we'd best come out of hiding and then take over? Well... more than one, I suppose, but one that got close right before I ended up here. Megalomaniac enjoyed fancying himself king of the world more than thinking it through."

Edited 2012-08-22 22:47 (UTC)

This gets an easy laugh out of Deacon -- almost too easy, as if there's some hidden humour embedded in Ivan's comment. As ever, there is an edge to it, because there is a sharpness to all things he does. "Wouldn't it be nice," he says, fresh off a hit from his cigarette, palming up his cards.

"I don't think any self-respecting vampire imagines that once the bloodsucking cat's outta the bag, we abide by human laws. To be fair to your pals."

Ivan notes the laugh, even if he isn't entirely sure what to make of it. "It would take a generous mind to describe Herrick as my friend," he says, pushing in his chips as the turn comes to him. "And no, he rather saw it as a new world order. Unfortunately, I think he overestimated his own prowess substantially. If the Old Ones allowed it, it would be for their own ends, not his. Still." Ivan shrugs.

"He's dead, and as far as I know, the world continues merrily along its way, tearing itself slowly apart. Bristol's a bit of a hell hole, I imagine, but frankly, it didn't have that far to go, did it?"

Presumably a rhetorical question.

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