(no subject)

[rhinemaid]

Who: Ivan and Njoki
What: Njoki tries to find Ivan; Ivan does her one better and shows up on her doorstep. Shenanigans ensue.
Where: Mafaton.
When: During the current cruorvore clusterfuck.
Notes: Ilde is not actually in this log, I just really enjoy formatting gdoc logs for posting, deal with it.
Warnings: Violence, etc.

Njoki knows it’s not the best plan she’s ever had, but she likes Ivan or at the very least finds his general air of jack-assery entertaining, and Ilde seems like a good woman. With the doors and wards checked and rechecked, she resweeps the floor in the living room and starts to set out her kit for a tracking spell. Normally, she’d magnetize a needle and use that to lead her to him, but unwilling to go outside the spell has to be adjusted on the fly -- less intent to find him and more just to know where he is.

After making up a nearly identical sachet to the one she gave him to soothe his face and tying it to a silver chain, Njoki charges the spell and lets it swing like a pendulum over a map of Baedal.

Ivan is still in Mafaton for the time being; he’d been heading home when the frenzy hit, and hadn’t needed to go farther afield for prey. He’s old enough and strong enough to outrank many of the younger vampires in raw power and experience, and it means his hunting is going well.

Not that Ivan is thinking of that. He isn’t thinking of much of anything, at the moment, except for blood, and the need for more of it. He can’t even be said to truly be enjoying the blood he’s had; it does little to slake his thirst. Ivan is moving, purposeful but not fast given how often he stopped.

Purposeful movement is a relatively good sign. It means he’s still active and alive(ish), but there’s really no additional information she can get from just dowsing. Njoki’s never had luck with scrying or any of the less bloody forms of divination.

Putting the chain down, she picks up her CiD and dashes off a brief text message to Ilde:

He’s alive and moving. Can’t tell much more than that.

Ivan is in no condition to register any tug from the charm he wears; he’s almost high from the sheer amount of blood he’s consumed since the spell triggered. Later, he’ll be angry. Right now, he feels little except relief.

He may be heading vaguely back toward his flat, but not in any sort of good time.

In an ideal world, there wouldn’t be even the slightest tug upon the charm, but this is far from that reality and as with the blood and magic charged atmosphere, it’s possible that trick is working in reverse -- instead of the dowse showing Ivan’s location, it’s working to bring him to Njoki’s apartment.

He can be led without too much fuss, as little as he’s paying attention. However, he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t register the familiarity; it doesn’t quite give him pause, but she might have wards that will. Or perhaps her not being entirely human will do it.

Her door is locked and warded against unwelcome guests, but should he knock or call out, she’ll hear him.

“No one home?” he calls out, a bit slurred. “That’s a shame. Figured everyone had come out to play by now. End of the world, haven’t you noticed?” He hadn’t fed this much after keeping himself in check in a long while, and he’d started the night on Ilde’s blood; it wasn’t surprising that he’s turned out a little loopy.

“I’m coming down to open the door,” she calls out through a partially opened window. There’s a moment of silence as Njoki checks her trick again and frowns before breaking the sachet off the chain. “Don’t let anyone else from the street come in and try to eat me, eh?”

“No one wants to eat you,” he drawls, “shapeshifters taste wretched.” He may or may not be full of shit, at present.

“You don’t even know.” Ivan ought to be able to hear her coming down the stairs, up to the door, adjusting the wards, and waiting a moment with her hand on the lock. Deep breath. Big girl panties.

She slides the deadbolt, flicks the lock, and steps back onto the staircase.

“Are you asking me inside?” he says, wryly. His eyes are solid black.

“Only you and be a dear to lock it behind you?” She’s going to wait on the staircase, not only because of the height advantage, but because she doesn’t want to leave the door unguarded.

He strolls in, but does shut the door as asked. “It’s a dangerous night to be having guests, you know.”

“I know.” There’s a roughness to her voice that he’s probably never heard before. “How’re you planning to behave now that you’re in?”

“Hadn’t decided. Wasn’t kidding about shifter blood though - I’ve only had werewolf, but it tastes rancid.” He tilts his head, considering her. “I may not stay, though. I’m still hungry, you see.”

She may or may not be able to tell his calm is false; it’s a hunting technique, nothing more. But it might be a tell that he can’t or won’t change his eyes back to their more human appearance.

“I was bit once. It went poorly.” Njoki pushes up, getting up from where she was sitting and stands on the staircase, not yet willing to turn her back on him. “And I’m no wolf, but you probably know that much, right?”

“I do have eyes. Not sure what you are, all of it.” He grins, a glint of white in the dimness. “Isn’t that marvelous? I love surprises, and I get so few.”

“Lovely colour, too.” Njoki cocks her head to one side and lets her own eyes slide to a smooth, even black. “But I’d be biased, wouldn’t I?”

“Biased in what way?” He would dearly love a fight for its own sake, in his current state, but he’s still deceptively loose and smiling.

Ki taps a finger at the corner of her eye. You see? They match. It’s a conscious, if not entirely rational decision to turn her back to him and finish walking up the stairs. Either he’ll attack or he won’t, but either way she won’t have to drag him up into the apartment.

He doesn’t yet - she’s not prey exactly, she’s something else. But he’s interested enough not to leave just yet.

“I’ll put the kettle on.” There’s a creaking, grinding snap coming from one of her joints as she reaches the top of the stairs. “D’you know if whatever’s causing the madness was just in the distributed blood or is it blood borne?”

“Madness? That’s a very Victorian explanation for what’s going on. It’s not about sanity down there.” He tilts his head, watching her. “Have you been out?”

“No. I’m … no, Ivan, I haven’t gone out.” She’s waiting at the top of the stairs, leaning in the doorframe, watching him.

He comes up to her, not leaving much space. It’s nearly a dare; she has the advantage of home turf, though he’s drunk so much that his not inconsiderable abilities are at their height. “That’s a shame. It’s Mardi Gras and Carnival out there. They pushed us far enough, and it’s all sprung back in their bloody faces.”

“Never been to either of those.” Up close, it’s apparently that not only her teeth are sharper, but that her jaw is heavier and there’s something ‘off’ about the way she moves. Njoki deliberately leans a little closer and rests her hand against his shoulder.

He’s tense, not as if he’s nervous, but as if he’s ready for this to go pearshaped. As if thinking of how he’ll take her apart. “Something against hedonism?”

“Nerves. ‘m a bit of a coward.” There’s a quiet, chuffing sort of whine that comes from somewhere deep in her chest. The moment hangs there, neither of them moving just yet, but the potential is almost painfully present.

“I’d never have guessed.” Under the circumstances. He seems to be waiting for something.

“No? I thought it was obvious.” There’s a hitch in her breathing, but she steadies it out. While she’s confident that if a fight starts, when the fight starts, she can take him down as easily as she soothed his burn, Njoki isn’t as sure that she’ll be able to hold back if the frenzy can jump species.

“You’re a bit perverse for a coward,” he observed, leaning in just slightly.

“Maybe this is a form of action therapy?” Njoki, no. Do not (further) bait the vampire.

Ivan grinned, not bothering to seem even slightly human. “Is that why you asked me in? Therapeutic reasons?”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to rest on the couch, would you? I could find a cigar to waggle, if you’d rather.” It’s not that she’s loathe to turn to violence, rather too much the opposite.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much interest in talk, this evening.” Fight and stay, or go and keep feeding. He hasn’t quite decided yet.

Njoki shrugs and the movement causes her joints to crack in an alarming manner. There’s probably enough time for Ivan to notice that she’s suddenly smiling as she pushes back, hard with that hand on his shoulder. Will he tumble down the stairs?

For a man with such a large frame, his balance is surprisingly good. He catches her wrist as she shoves, and uses her as leverage to shift his weight back with the push and then forward again, trying to push her back through the doorway. He’s no martial artist, but he’s been handfighting for most of his very long life.

Conversely, Njoki is really rather a bit shit at fighting and is pushed back through the doorway, into the hall. Ideally, she’d rather avoid making a mess of the living room, but she’s already locked away her more delicate and expensive items just in case she had to flee.

There’s a loud, cackling whoop that seems to surprise her as much as it might anyone else, as she tries to pull her wrist back.

He releases it abruptly; if she goes staggering back like he anticipates, he’ll sweep a foot out to see if he can trip her.

Njoki does fall backwards, but she’s able to partly catch herself so she doesn’t go sprawling flat. With her change slowly coming on, she’s starting to move a little quicker than usual, but it’s not going to be much help against Ivan unless she forces it.

“Come on,” he says, lightly, advancing on her. “Don’t hold back on my account.” He hasn’t had a proper fight all evening, which might have been why he knocked.

“But you’ve got such a nice suit, Ivan.” There’s another pained whine as she stretches and pops her neck, using that as an excuse to tilt her head back a bit and get a better feel for his scent. “And I’m not sure if I want to replace the carpet in here. Sure, it’s outdated, but think of the hassle?”

“You’re not a coward, you’re just lazy,” he accused with a grin, and sent a well-timed punch at her mouth - or chin, if her head is still tilted back.

The hit connects and she’s forced backwards, shaking her head to clear it, and there’s a bright, brilliant, and thoroughly out of place smile on her face. Ki chuffs again, and rubs her jaw with one hand while slipping the other into her back pocket.

“I imagine,” he says, as he watches her from a little more than arm’s reach away, “that you don’t swear to do no harm when you treat the dead, hm?” His stance is loose, but his attention is on the hand out of sight.

“Wrong sort of doctor. I’ve an entirely different set of oaths.” From her perspective the problem is pretty simple: she needs either blood or flesh to work magic, but either or both of them are infected and possibly contagious. “...out of curiosity, you wouldn’t be interested in gently bleeding on something for me, would you?”

When in doubt, be direct.

He laughs, frankly. “I have no interest in giving up blood tonight. I’ve been hungry since I got to this forsaken place.” Presumably Baedal, not her house. Still smiling, deciding on his next move, he says, “What do you think, should I track down the three who tried to scar my face, or has someone else found them by now?”

“Could you track them?” Njoki neatly glosses over the issue of hunger, but doesn’t manage to school her own expression. While she might not need blood quite in the same way Ivan does, there’s something she’s been craving.

He shrugs, still eyeing her contemplatively. “Not magically, if that’s what you mean. It’d take some time.” Probably not tonight, unless they were very, very unlucky.

She tightens her grip on whatever is in her back pocket, working to keep her breathing slow and even. Ivan can probably tell that Njoki isn’t frightened; she’s frustrated and getting angry. “What do you want? I’d like to be a good host.”

“Would you?” He takes a step back. “To be honest, this isn’t as interesting as I’d hoped.” He can try to kill her just to see if he can, but he’s getting restless. He wants more blood. “Maybe I’ll just let you lock yourself back in while the rest of us don’t deny ourselves.”

“Well, fuck,” she says with a skittering giggle underneath her words as she pushes up into his personal space. Maybe she should’ve let him get closer to the stairs before shoving at him again, but she’s not sure how fast he can move. “Nothing is ever easy, eh?”

At this point, it may be worth noting that what she had in her pocket, and then in her hand, was a small little boxcutter. She’s just trying to nick him a bit.

He can move quickly, especially now, and she doesn’t have him pinned well enough. “That’s just annoying,” he observed, and darted into to attempt to catch the wrist of the hand holding the blade.

“It is a shit idea,” she says with a grimace while she reevaluates whether or not it will be worth risking infection. If he decides to do anything permanently disfiguring, she’s reasonably sure she can get him bloodied and down in time. Bah, best not risk it.

Njoki whoops and snaps at him, trying to get a little space so she can get enough room to properly smack his jaw.

She cuffs him, as he retreats a few steps, turning to attempt not to be forced down the stairs. “That’s more like it. Come on now.”

Njoki looks honestly surprised that she hit him. She’s comfortable hunting but unsure about how to fight without the intent to kill. Cautiously, she steps forward again, moving back into his space.

As she does, he lashes out with a blow that, if it lands, could break her nose.

Ki turns, but the blow still connects and while she yelps and drops her head low, there’s a far more alarming crackling coming from elsewhere in her body. She’s been hovering between changing for too long and unless they manage to bring this to an end soon, there’s going to be a very large, very unhappy hyena in the hallway.

He takes a few steps back, putting space between them, and says, “As good a host as you’ve tried to be, I think it’s time for me to be moving on.” He’ll either fight his way out in earnest, or she’ll let him go.

The practical thing to do would be to let him go and hope Hellsing doesn’t find him or Ilde blame her for not being able to contain him. For a certain definition of responsible, she ought to be glad that she kept him off the street for at least a little while and didn’t get infected herself.

Oh, well.

Once she’s made the decision to shift, the actual process of altering her form is liquid-quick and she’s able to use the additional mass to her advantage when pushing off to try and pin him.

Four feet are more of a threat than two - there’s a reason that werewolves will often (if not always) take out even an old vampire.

On the other hand, once she’s shifted, his entire attention is on her and he’s no more need to pull his punches. Or not to sink his teeth in, if he gets the chance; just because she tastes unpleasant isn’t enough reason to avoid using one of his most painful weapons, either.

He has a knife on him, but he’d feel that would be cheating. Not so much he won’t use it to save his life, but he’d prefer not to.

She’s oddly shaped in the lanky way you sometimes see on bears in the early spring, as if someone took a smaller animal and just stretched its limbs out, increasing its reach, but forgetting to add bulk. Her goal in this fight is to try and pin him down and get him to bleed, a little will do, and if she’s able to do that, she should be able to bind him down. Just as she was able to make his face go slack, she can do the same to his whole body and, effectively force him into torpor.

It’s no easy feat, especially as she has more of a care for his continued life than he has for hers, in the moment. He can’t get her throat, but he does sink his teeth into her shoulder at one point, deeply. There is, then, a profusion of her blood.

Ivan’s strong, large and experienced, but the frenzy means he’s reacting, not strategizing, which is what eventually trips him up. He stops minding his surroundings for just an instant, but that instant is enough for her to knock him down. She can’t pin him for long, but probably long enough to draw blood.

Curiously, she probably doesn’t taste much like any werewolf that Ivan knows, but that’s because she’s neither cursed nor infected with anything. She may be vaguely reminiscent of other vampires, but that’s a conversation for another day.

Instead of biting him, she scratches, trying to minimize the risk of causing her own frenzy, and is rewarded with just enough blood to ideally force him into torpor.

His body isn’t used to torpor as such, but she can make him go limp and passive. When she does so, he slumps to the floor, unmoving and unbreathing but outwardly intact.

Ki pushes off him, breathing heavily, as she settles back into a relatively human form. Her shirt was Dedicated and if it wasn’t bloody and torn, it would’ve survived the change, as it is, she scowls and stands, pressing to the wound before heading into the bathroom to patch herself up before calling Ilde to let her know that she’s found a wandering vampire.

Unfortunately, Ilde isn’t able to answer and that means she’s left with a short message (“The pointy bastard is alive and resting.”) before Ki returns back into the hallway and Ivan’s less than mobile body. The carpet is a write-off, so there’s not really any point in moving him just to clean it; best drag his needlessly tall being into the living room to start on an anti-frenzy trick.

Once she’s finished, and taken care of cleaning herself and her home up, it comes time to release him. When she does, he slowly shakes his head and then groans. “Christ.” It has been a long, long time since Ivan felt this physically bad.

“Risen from the dead, are we?” Njoki is sitting on the floor beside Ivan and seems confident that he’s not about to attack her or goad her (more than usual). As if to apologize for the poor joke, she offers him a warm washcloth to clean up a little. “Sorry about your suit.”

He takes the offered cloth. “Is this you, or whatever was in that blood?”

“The latter. Knocking you down shouldn’t hurt beyond the scratches.” Which she’s cleaned and patched up.

Ivan wipes his face, and the back of his neck. “This is what I get for breaking first principles.” Bagged blood was a waste of time, and he never would have taken it if he hadn’t been on edge from deprivation.

“S’there anything you need?” Something outside just shrieked loud enough to rattle the windowpanes and Njoki snorts, shaking her head in annoyance.

“A new head.” He glanced up at the window. “And I wouldn’t say no to a crack at the people behind this, either.”

“For the moment, I can’t help with either.” She’s still wired and it shows in the way she moves, that she doesn’t want to sit still, and the attention she’s paying to her surroundings.

“I’m not going back on the streets for a bit, if you’ll let me stay, that will help.” Either he’ll be fighting those under the blood’s effects, or he’ll run afoul of those looking to put down as many crurovores as they can.

“Stay. It’s still a mess out there, but the CiD says that Hellsing is coming from one side and the Council the other and between ‘em, they’ll wipe the canton clean soon.” Njoki hopes that West and Pickman have found some sort of shelter, but she hasn’t heard from either of them since this started.

“And then the fires will start, I have no doubt.” Gingerly, he gets up and goes to the window. “Maybe they’ll let Hellsing keep the tame ones on staff, but I imagine that depends on tonight’s body count.”

“Maybe. At least most of the older ones are still asleep.” With some of them bloodshed is less an issue and the concern shifts to holes in reality, living shadows, and whatever other talents they might possess.

Njoki remains sitting and has a sip of her tea before gingerly testing her nose - it’s sore, but already well on the way to healing.

“For all the good it will do.” He glances back at her. “I can’t decide if I should be worried about your sanity for inviting me in, or chastened that you knew you could put me down.”

“I wasn’t sure. It was a good guess that if I could get you bleeding I could, but I don’t fight. I haven’t ever needed to,” she admits a bit awkwardly, still on the floor, leaning back against the sofa.

“You bet your life,” he says, a bit grim as he looks back out. “Still. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m going to make you help me re-carpet the hallway. Look dashing in a toolbelt and flannel, eh?” There’s an image.

He snorts, crossing his arms lightly, and leaning against the window frame. “If I’m not lynched, I suppose it will be the least I can do.”

“I swear not to drop a pencil in your plumber’s crack.” Njoki has her eyes closed and sounds almost as if she might nod off.

“Very comforting.” He falls quiet, letting her fall into a doze if she was going to. Ivan himself has a lot of thinking ahead of him. Almost belatedly, he digs out his CiD and sends Ilde a quick text:

I’m in one piece, laying low, myself again. Let me know you’re alive when it’s convenient.