multiversallogs | isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking

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isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking

Who: Deacon Frost, Ilde Decima and Ivan.
What: An invitation accepted.
Where: Gutters.
When: Now.

On the surface, time is dictated by the sun, a given constant. Down here, it's a subjective measuring of wound watches and the steady, relentless tick of digital numbers, but it can also be measured by the amount of people flowing through the underground passageways that stem into Gutters.

Otherwise, the lighting doesn't care. The shadows are thick where there isn't that piercing sheen of artificial light staining the concrete walls, iron bars and steel pipes, and that's just the corridor, currently playing host to the nightlife ducking down underground. The space itself is as impervious to the logical progression of time as the people it caters to, permeated with the scent of the underground, water and earth, with cigarette smoke, with copper and salt. Music aches through the floor, a heavy bass, and security isn't particularly overt, but certainly present - that isn't counting the guy at the door handing off the money people give to get in.

This isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking.

But it is Deacon Frost's natural habitat regardless, for all that he doesn't feed here, doesn't dance much, doesn't strike up meaningful conversation a hell of a lot. He's moving out of the backrooms and into the larger space, doing up the sleeves of his shirt with his CiD gripped in one hand, and going about his evening. Eventually, he's going to need some fresh air.

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The query 'where does she keep her weapons in that outfit' shows, in Ilde's opinion, a marked lack of creativity. In fairness, it does require at least some effort on the part of most, whereas she has the convenient ability to hide anything she likes on her person by simply adding it to the list of things she's already hiding at a given moment, like 'what she really looks like'. Illusions are her strength- the unreal quality of her appearance is a feature, not a flaw.

(In a pinch, she'll put a high heel through somebody's eyeball.)

Perversely, she's pleased by her own level of caution (at walking into a place like Gutters with a pulse), blithely ignoring the fact that it's hard to use that as an example of her clearly sufficient self-preservation instinct when she is, nevertheless, strolling in on Ivan's arm with a beating heart pumping uniquely enticing blood through her veins. Confident in both her own ability to take care of herself and the fact that if nothing else Ivan is bizarrely possessive of said blood, the fact that she's invited herself along gives her pause, but-- well, not as much as it could.

Both Sonja and Remy are likely to be interested in how this goes. She has every intention of walking out as calmly as she's walking in.

Ivan is alert, and would be if he didn't have the equivalent of vampire cocaine hanging off his arm. (He's very fond of Ilde.) He's frequented several bars since arriving in Baedal; Gutters wouldn't be his scene, normally, but he needs his blood fresh and pumping, and there are only so many homeless to pick off before someone notices.

The fact that he doesn't know what Deacon looks like isn't about to deter him; he has eyes and ears and he's patient. He has no doubt they'll get what they came for eventually.

For those tuned towards smelling it, the scent of blood is one note in the sensory overload. Blood freshly spilled beneath new bites, blood still warm and served in earthenware, and older blood not quite cleaned out from the various cracks in the floor.

And Ilde is not the only person here who doesn't fit under the notion of crurovore, but unique enough not to escape attention. Upon arrival, she is brushed by some curious immortal, not so unlike a shark bumping a boat to test its make and edibility. There are other feline glances flashed her way, and it's the shadow of Ivan that truly has people wary about Startin' Somethin' as is common practice - but only barely and only for now.

"You smell hungry," is a female voice from just near Ivan's shoulder, suddenly. A female crurovore, her hands spidered over matching, deep red containers that reek of fresh blood, one offered towards Ivan without asking for return finance. She slices a glance towards Ilde. "Can't imagine why."

Meanwhile, it wouldn't take long to hear the name Deacon through the crush of people - the bartender in greeting, sliding across a silver lighter as requested on the worn wooden bartop. It's used swiftly, a tiny point of orange glow in the quasi-dark as he lights up. Soon, a thin ribbon of smoke winding up for the industrial ceiling of brick and metal.

With blue-black eyes and a magnetic pull, Ilde wards off those familiar enough with the fae to be wary of tangling with them- she's still too new to what she is for it to be more certainty than attitude, but she is at least getting very good at the latter. Fey and sudden and unholy, like the poem; she moves like she's in control here, lacing her fingers through Ivan's.

Her hearing is a blessing and a curse in this place. On the one hand, the ambient noise doesn't bother her, doesn't inconvenience conversations when she's watching mouths and not listening, and then again on the other hand she doesn't hear what's said when she isn't looking. She misses half of the approach Ivan receives, though when she glances in that direction she dismisses the other half as not what she came here for, concentrating on peeling apart the different signatures of magic per breed. The dead space of those that aren't inherently magical in nature, those ones are strange-

"I prefer to get my own, darling, but thank you for the welcome all the same." He smiles at her, charming and lopsided. "Bit shy of offerings these days, no matter how lovely the source."

He's listening for that name, following its movement through the bar without seeming to. He is at ease and in control, though blood is always a temptation - just a bit less when it's no longer below someone's skin.

"Chivalry's undead," she comments, mouth and nose disappearing into earthenware to take a long draw of O negative. Her disinterest in Ilde probably has more to do with the fact that Ilde creates indifference than anythinge else. "If you're not after blood, what're you after?" Her voice is light to keep the question inoccuous, because the best kind of security is the kind of security you don't know is security.

Paranoia. Ivan doesn't take offerings anymore too.

Ivan is the one on the guest list, so while the inquiry draws Ilde's attention - she's still feeling her way through as they move, seeking out the familiar and the unfamiliar, watching for any faces she already knows - she lets him field it on his own. It remains to be seen whether or not she'll actually have anything to say to Deacon, and in the meantime she's doing more listening (watching) than anything else- it's what she's good at.

"I might have some fresh, a bit later on," he said. "But for now I'm looking for someone. I do hope that's permitted?"

Ivan is perfectly polite, perfectly relaxed, and perfectly willing to throw his age about should he need to. (And not otherwise.)

"I guess that depends on who you're looking for," she says, with a little more steely severity, and a heavy blink of made over eyelashes peering over her drink of blood. It could be interesting, what affect Ivan's age would have down here, considering both the clientele and the management, not to mention the various kinds of vampire that come flitting through. For instance; Frost is a different kind than Ivan.

But not in huge leaps and bounds. They're both very fast.

"Inès."

The film-edit blur of movement resolves not so far away in the form of Deacon Frost, and the woman turns at her name being spoken. Deacon's attention renders her job moot, in this case, so she moves on without particular concern, and he breathes out draconic tendrils of smoke, cigarette clutched in loose hand. "We don't get a lot of nonregulars lately," is sort of like apology? In the name of professionalism over sincerity. Bland interest, maybe. "Times are tough. You'll have to excuse the help."

Here we go.

Vampire, yes, but no kind she's encountered before; that's interesting, even independent of what they're here for. (She doesn't think she and Ivan are precisely after the same things, but their respective agendas have yet to clash and that's good enough for her, at least for now.) Her attention settles on him with a catlike tilt of her head, serene and focused in a way that sets her slightly apart from the usual living-and-breathing crowd down here.

"Most of the places I was like a regular are closed, I'm afraid," Ivan says, still easy. "There's nothing to forgive. I'm not here to cause any sort of trouble." He isn't tense, but he's attentive.

"Business, suffering? Tell me about it."

It could be left at that, but Deacon isn't moving, in no hurry to be anywhere else. Pallid skin is that slightest shade of less-than-pasty to mean he, himself, isn't starving any time soon, eyes a bright blue that shifts their gaze off towards wee woman at the taller man's side. His mouth quirks into crooked cynicism, and if it's unfriendly, it's because that's just how Frost's face is. "And what, you bring her here to watch?"

"To see," she corrects, tranquilly; her voice has a musical edge, like something that listeners want to hear, but it's subtle and just enough to note, not to pull any more than the very weak-willed. She half-smiles, sharp-toothed and probably not reassuring Ivan terribly much about having given into her insistence that she come along, reserved but not quite so much apart as she tends to be. This is interesting, so far.

"And because she's the most stubborn woman," he says, mild. "I had a conversation with a man recently via CiD. I was hoping I might continue it, if I could find him."

Oh.

Somewhere between guessing outright (he didn't) and being entirely unsuspecting (he wasn't), Deacon raises an eyebrow with half-smirk turning into a more knowing smile of confirmation, minorly oversized canine teeth a-flash in the dim light, a display that should surprise no one down here. Hey, if she can show her teeth--

"I fucking hate texting, so, glad you could make it. Walk with me."

Mostly to get out of the crush of crowd, which Deacon navigates well enough, leaving the winding trail of smoke like a trail to follow. "You too, princess."

At home it was usually principessa, but nevertheless the appellation isn't exactly a new thing and Ilde doesn't react to it-- though maybe she just missed it when he turned to lead them on. Either way, she's got no intention of being left behind and just digs her thumbnail into Ivan's palm for that (entirely correct) crack about her mulish tendencies, trailing them through the space they make in the crowd.

It's easy to let them take focus, to fade a little into something pretty and ostensibly pointless, because she honed that ability long before she started trying to use it to slink into places she shouldn't be. It's what she does now, catching hold of Ivan's elbow with her other hand so she doesn't get lost, wondering only fleetingly if anyone can tell what's in her veins just by smell.

Ivan would rather her along; if she was listening to them, she wasn't getting eaten by someone else

"Texting has its uses," Ivan agrees, as they go, "but I do feel we hit their limit. Nice to meet you."

"Ivan, right? Call me Deacon."

If Ilde wants to offer her name and purpose, she is free to. Deacon doesn't otherwise stop to make sure people feel included as he more or less leads them out of the pack of wolves they're surrounded by, for all that snapping and biting at people clearly within the company of the management would be a stupid idea.

Up towards a low rise railed off in wrought iron, which signifies a measure of privacy in principle only. He finds a spot to lean. "At least it got you curious. To be honest, I've been hearing a lot of apologetic bullshit over the lines, and I sort of expected more of the same. Thanks for surprising me."

The fact Ilde neglects to supply a name is no deliberate desire to be mysterious- it just doesn't immediately occur to her to do so. Of course, that she leaves off her purpose is more to do with the fact that she's still assessing whether or not she thinks this is actually going to be worth her while, worth their while, and she's curious but not yet committing. Vampires, she'd observed, are likely to care most about what directly concerns vampires; he could be the useful angry vampire they speculated about, or he could be preoccupied with one thing and disinterested in how it connects to the larger tapestry of bullshit.

A handful of remarks that she got secondhand won't tell her which, so she leans against Ivan and watches him, keeping her valiant protector (ha) between her and the iron. (It's fucking everywhere, it drives her up the wall.) "It was smart to use vampires," she murmurs, testing. "Introduction to Bigotry 101. Predators are the easy target. Push the city off-kilter. Especially if it's normal. Vampire numbers grow, then something happens- then there aren't so many vampires. It's a pattern in Baedal."

So Réjean told her. It's fun, having friends in strangely low places.

Edited 2011-10-25 11:41 (UTC)

"It's also a population disinclined to band together," Ivan points out. "And people are angry, yes, but they're outnumbered. Xenians who aren't crurovores are hoping if they disassociate themselves, they'll be left alone. For the most part," he amends, as Ilde is an exception, and not the only one.

"Still. I dislike being used in someone else's power play."

Frost's attention is needling and interested when Ilde speaks up, listening with his head tilted cattish and filter tip of his cigarette hovered not far from his mouth. That focus is passed back to Ivan, finally, before he takes another deep inhale of smoke, cycloptic orange eye flaring brighter as the embers burn. Breathing being a thing he only does when given specific reason.

"They can be unified," he counters. "Given reason that's not too complex to grasp, like blood, power and freedom to fuck around. But you're right - all I'm hearing is rhetoric about laying low and going to ground. Disappointing."

He flicks ash off his cigarette with more agitation than his voice suggests. "So who's wanting the city off-kilter?"

Ilde's gaze, in turn, is frank and frankly assessing; she's not unconscious of where she is (who she's with), but she isn't afraid and that may have a lot more to do with the things that are wrong with her than anything else.

"Candlelighters," she says, because while the extent of her activities are something she takes more care with - she's not inclined to indulge the Jane Austen book club's desire for secrecy. "This isn't an isolated incident."

Ivan nods. "I'm not sure yet it was only them, but it seems likely they're involved. All cloak and dagger, but they seem to have resources."

"All I know about those," Deacon says, after a moment's consideration that drags from fairy to fellow bloodsucker, "are fuckin' rumours and hearsay. What, they want some sympathy before stepping out of the shadows? Turn us into animals first?"

There's that edge, but Deacon isn't expecting these two strangers to answer him - thinking out loud, bitching, whatever you want to call it. He gets to the point along with an exhale of smoke when he adds, "If you're looking for information down this way, I'll be honest with you and say I got nothing, assuming that's the transaction you're after."

Edited 2011-10-26 05:29 (UTC)

"Not exactly." There's something very deliberate about those two words- maybe it's just the way she is, stiller than some dead things with a kind of bladed precision that skews her faint smile into something odd and out of place. (She is something odd and out of place.) "It's more of a networking endeavour."

They - or she, at least - have a little more to go on than just rumours and hearsay, and it can't hurt to establish contacts further through the city. Especially if they're thinking of being a little more forthright, ultimately, and in that case Deacon might be interested in being involved.

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