multiversallogs | i understand how riots start. i just don't understand why they ever stop.

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i understand how riots start. i just don't understand why they ever stop.

Who: Ilde, Remy and Erik
What: Erik needs 'reading material', and also a beer. Remy and Ilde are here to help.
Where: A riverside restaurant and bar of Remy's choosing.
When: After this log and this post.
Notes: I'M SORRY I'M ALL OVER THE LOG COMM >_>
Warnings: Mentions of blood and sex.

While Ivan may ordinarily be a light sleeper, the intoxicating nature of Ilde's blood tends to knock him out like the dead (so to speak--) and when she disentangles herself to pack up her sealed bag for the water, he doesn't stir. The folders go into the bag first, followed by clothes she won't have trouble pulling on by the river, a pair of shoes and her purse. She leaves it open, sitting on the end of her bed in Ivan's shirt to call Remy and Erik both before she leaves (letting Erik know she's on her way, letting Remy know she had copies handy and she'll bring Erik to the bar) and before she drops the CiD in with everything else and seals the bag. There's something extremely useful about having something she can take into the water with her, and knowing her luck one of these days it's going to get broken, but until then...

Ivan- I've got something to do tonight. I'll be back before morning. If Angus gets in again, just put him out.

Once she's refastened the bracelet she was wearing earlier, she slings the strap of her bag across her body so it'll rest against the back of her hip when she hits the water and lets herself out of the villa to go down to the river. It's familiar territory, by now, and she changes form mid-motion, diving deep down where she knows it best. She has her own landmarks to follow - rivermarks, if you will - and getting to Brock Marsh isn't terribly complicated.

Surfacing when she reaches the bridge, she lingers in the water for a short while, just watching.

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Remy's joke makes her laugh, quietly, terrible as it is - she really does enjoy her James Bond routine, she'll continue volunteering to do more of it - but she says, "I think mostly the vampires will be interested so far as what affects vampires. It's like that in New York, too; it isn't our monstrous world that bothers them, they just don't like to be prey as well." Her tone is tolerant, almost indulgent, like she's just talking about bad puppies that nevertheless deserve a biscuit.

"They're prone to that." Being interested in Erik? ... Apparently. But he sounds so effortlessly business as usual about it that it's hard to tell. He doesn't mind cultivating the appearance that he's the man with all the answers, anyway, and he doesn't seem inclined to give the other man any particular Looks about the subject of himself and Wanda. There are bigger, badder parental units back at home to really worry about, where that's concerned.

(One time he got into a fist fight with Mystique on the lawn of the Xavier Institute For Higher Learning. True story.)

"The ones I grew up with tended to be a little better adjusted," he says, chuckling a little. The vampires at home for him are familiar faces, at least in New Orleans. Past that, they get a little weird, but everybody's pretty used to the fact that vampires are not the heaviest hitters by far.

"I've had no prior experience with vampires, personally." It doesn't sound like he's worried that this may mean he's missed out on something special. The overall air about him can now be qualified as 'chill', actually. More or less. The beer may have something to do with it—that and feeling like he's actually making steps toward a goal, now, thanks especially to these people. "Apart from the metaphorical kind, of course." Of course. "Any tips for a beginner?"

This is quite a drink he's taking now. Behold it.

"Let them think that they're important," Ilde advises, thoughtfully, stirring her drink with one of the cherries still in it. She's easing into good humour, which is equal parts nicotine and company; she likes them both, even if she's more inclined to trust Remy than Erik. (Timing is everything, there - her loyalty is worryingly easy to gain.) "They like that. Ego."

"Watch their hands, and don't drink anything they give you." Thrall: not actually all that fun.

"We had a pretty old local community in New Orleans," he says, with the air of someone who is now going to tell a story, and this is basically what they get for sitting down with beer with a pleasant-tempered Cajun, "And one of them big old graveyards over catacombs from fuck-knows-when. Most of 'em lived in houses just fine, but every so often if somebody went back in a grave, they'd sleep there. We had this game as kids in the winter, when it'd get dark real fast, to go wait by the gates at sunset, and we'd dare each other to run in and touch the headstone of the clan elder, and see if we could make it back before it got black out." He starts chuckling a bit. "And if anybody was there and you were too slow, they'd reach up outta the ground and grab at your ankles, and we'd just run screamin'."

Erik nods as though he understands Ilde quite well—you know the sort, chin up first, the nods coming slowly after, looking like he's recalling a specific thing. And so he is. He's not going to mention it, though. That's a little heavy for this table.

..Even though Remy is now talking about being attacked by dead things. "They actually grabbed your legs?" Somehow, he looks both concerned and entertained at the same time.

"Wait--" Ilde leans back from the table slightly, gesturing with a cherry she'd been about to put in her mouth. "What about drinks? Isobel tried to compel me with eye contact, but she couldn't manage it-"

He nods at Erik, still chuckling a little, because his sense of humor is... like that.

To Ilde, "If a non-vampire drinks a vampire's blood, you can end up bound to that vampire until it gets out of your system. There's a whole lot of species of 'em, so it don't work the same in every instance, but it's still not somethin' you want to mess with. Some of 'em can hypnotize people too through suggestion like that, which-" he holds up his hands, like see? "If you watch their hands and not their eyes, you can break up continued contact, and check if they're slippin' you a roofie." He takes a drink. "I think you're too high on the evolutionary chain for 'em to get away with it unless it's one hell of a mind whammy, though."

The briefest thought occurs here to Erik—something about it being too bad that trick doesn't work on telepaths, for which he immediately feels sort of contrite, and then feels sort of strange for feeling contrite, the whole thing culminating in a little brow-frown and a sort of fluttery blink. It's a complicated thought, yes, and leaves him looking vaguely perplexed. Perhaps it will succumb to death by swallowing.

He could just be pondering vampires. Yes, that is what's happening here.

"Are there any vampires in the cohort?" See.

"Ivan, a few others. One or two at Hellsing." ...Ilde knows too many fucking vampires is what they can take away from this conversation, apparently. "Isobel, but she's gone- she couldn't compel me, I think because I can do that, too."

How casually she drops that into conversation.

"I know some of them can heal with their blood, too. I wonder if she just left that part out of her offer or if it's not binding with that breed." ...not Isobel, but she's thinking out loud in her slightly disjointed way, putting the last end of her cigarette out.

"There's a couple, yeah." Remy saw some nervous-looking familiar faces at the tolerance rally, and he had is suppositions prior anyway. He doesn't seem shocked by Ilde's admission, but then, being as genre-savvy as he is, he more or less already assumed. (He's not actually as reckless as he seems, despite having no defenses against magic, he just knows where to pick his battles.)

"It's usually the trade-off of that, I've seen people gain the good bits of vampiric powers from blood, but it puts you in thrall all the same. I'd avoid it, personally." You know, like some mediocre restaurant, or whatever.

Well. Now Erik could really look at Ilde, perhaps as though to inquire after her mental integrity, but his thoughts are mostly elsewhere at this point and so it's confined to just a quick look—with furrowed eyebrows, sure, but they were already like that. It's not his place, besides. (Only because Ilde's still enough of a stranger to him that he doesn't feel inclined to tell her how to live, mind. Because he would, otherwise. He's like that.)

"I wouldn't even consider it. Trading autonomy for power is idiotic." Erik has opinions. Also, he's going for another smoke, and will take his sweet and leisurely time in lighting up, possibly because he knows he looks good doing it and can tell their table has been attracting glances since the three of them sat down.

"It was just strangulation bruises, so I let them heal on their own." What a life; she sounds as though she's glad she made that decision, looking at it now in retrospect with more information. Katherine had told her at the time that if she'd died with vampire blood in her system then she'd be turned, and as curious as she is in theory about what that would result in-

-she'd rather it stayed theoretical, presently.

"I can tell the different kinds by taste, though," she adds, thoughtful, a moment later. There's another beat before she clarifies, "If they're magic in origin. I can feel them- like tasting a muscle memory." English is insufficient for fae power. Her blood leaves a mark, too, a tricksy little binding, but she hasn't yet deigned to inform Ivan of her realization about that and she leaves off mentioning it now.

For a brief moment, Remy looks over at Erik. Opinions indeed. Strange - but very interesting - ones coming from a man who will someday attempt with all the powers of an earthborn god to remove autonomy from not one, but two entire species. Go to war, Children of the Atom. Whether you like it or not. His look is difficult to read; maybe he just finds Erik interesting.

(Sometimes when he's speaking with Raven, he reminds himself of New Sun. He doesn't now.)

Briefly, he signs something to Ilde, hand barely lifting off the table. «Different sense.»

"There's danger in everything." He tilts his head back, exhales smoke, speaks as he stares up at the sky and the too-bright specks of constellations he doesn't recognize. "Watch your step, no?" It's not an instruction; a reflection.

As if by luck—if that's what you want to call it—Erik meets Remy's gaze when it flits his way, and is effectively caught in the midst of snapping his smoke. Hi. That trick wasn't for you specifically, sir, don't be alarmed.

In any case, that ever so serendipitous moment passes with a sedate blink and a breath of similar character. He then swallows the last of this second beer and, once his glass is down, reaches for the pitcher again, offering to share the last of it before pouring for himself. Whatever's preoccupying him, it refuses to let go of that crease in his brow. ...It doesn't seem to be a particularly verbally inspiring preoccupation, either, for he does all this quietly.

«You come up with a word,» Ilde signs back, harkening back to their first meeting and the monkey receptacle animal thing. She lets the curious quiet sit a bit, though, letting some of her thoughts settle- Baedal is a different world, yes, but in its way Massachusetts prepared her for it. She can't imagine she'd be sitting here if she hadn't ever met Sonja, only that way lies thoughts like because I'd be dead or in a cage and even in the privacy of her own mind she never speculates on what her life would've been like if not. (Not anything, that's too direct, just a generalized sense of not.)

It isn't. It's this, here; it's the enclave, and New York, and blood running in the rain and somebody's coat and all this rage that needs a target, that Sonja gave direction. All roads lead back to, eventually. To New York, or Sonja, or just that quiet dark behind her eyes when she smiles.

It would be fair to say that she can use the reminder to watch her step, mainly because she doesn't especially want to.

«Okay.»

Now what, Ilde.

In the quiet dark, Remy is struck with the desire to laugh; a beautiful gilded cage and all the encouragement in the world to live in the open, but they can't even have that. People are clawing at it at all the edges, desperate to hate and desperate to use, but fuck - if anyone ever makes a Sentinel, at least they've got Magneto.

When he sits forward again he's smiling, pleasant and a bit like there's some private joke been handed out where only he can hear.

"I think this has been productive," he observes.

"It has," he agrees, with the renewed energy one uses when wishing to make a decent impression despite not actually feeling it. He will finish this last half-a-glass shortly, looks like, and afterward it's likely he'll depart. "It seems there's plenty to consider. Thank you for this. And these," he continues, indicating the folders still sitting down in Ilde's bag, the movement of his hand smooth but vague. He then interrupts himself with another drag and speaks through the exhaust. "I'll have a look at them straightaway."

(Yes. At least you've all got him.)

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i understand how riots start. i just don't understand why they ever stop.

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