Post by Scratch on Dec 8, 2013 22:23:37 GMT
It is early spring in Vienna, 1939. The Englishman in the corner booth of an all too empty taphouse has long outstayed his welcome; there is nothing about politics that suits him, this new regime included, and it is with a knowledgeable finger on the pulse of the government that he has since booked his train out of the country. A boat in one week’s time will see him safely back to England, and then he will again make the long trip home to America, where he hopes the rumblings of this potential war will never find him. A better man with such resources in reach might find some small way of doing his part, but Luc Dashiell has never been that man.
Whispers and warnings on the wind have intimated that this section of the world could be come dangerous for him shortly, and it is only for a vague hope and stubborn sentimentality that he has lingered this long. While Luc is not as ancient as some of his kin, nightwalkers or otherwise, he has done enough in his comparatively short lifetime to make something of a name for himself – it is not a particularly good one, but well known is the temper of the vampire de Chiel. He has enjoyed the infamy with the same cocksure disposition that suggests he is nigh invulnerable, that toothy grin of his that has made both friends and enemies alike.
It is the former – he hopes – that he waits for now, an acquaintance of the past whom has recently become more interesting than he would freely admit. That the sphinx would get herself caught up in some trouble is not entirely a surprise – she always had a head for planning, but her holier-than-thou nature compared to even his arrogance on levels of irritation – but for the life of him, Luc cannot track down a hint as to what has become of her. That means power is involved, and power means the vampire is irrevocably intrigued. Mal being one of his few remaining associates doesn’t hurt, either; and it is for this that he has risked lengthening his stay in eastern Europe.
War is a messy, clumsy thing, and though he does not fear it, Luc does not much care for its influence. He has no desire to further profit from the warmachine like a clever and business-savvy buzzard, feeding off carrion for bloody revenue, but this is more thanks to apathy and lassitude than any flickering spark of conscience; buried deeper still is the memory of the wars of his youth, of the causes he championed and the losses he suffered, and the decades in between have seen Luc grow selfishly weary of such involvement. It squanders what enjoyment the vampire still finds in the world, and it is for these reasons that his leg is restless, his foot tapping, his gazed tossed impatiently over his shoulder too frequently.
He has been seeing soldiers in the streets more and more, and this thought brings a petulant frown to his lips. The man’s hand travels unconsciously to the breast pocket of his frock coat, finding comfort in the tickets safely contained there.
When the woman shows up, all traces of his unease – not nervousness, never, only an irritated sullenness – disappears in the flash of his predatory grin. The pleasure in his eyes at her appearance is, for once, honest, and the man lazily kicks out the chair opposite him to allow her to sit. ”Ludmilla,” he intones softly, greeting her with a nod of his head and two fingers touched to the brim of his flat cap. ”It’s been too long.”
A flick of his hand sees two drinks arrive, and Luc plays with his glass lazily before abandoning tact entirely and cutting to their meeting’s purpose. He watches the dark-haired women from beneath thick lashes, the edges of his smile turned up in knowing play. ”Word on the wind is you’ve gotten in over your head on something. Someone.” And how could he know she had been bound to Ithkus all this time? It is fresh news to the vampire, and Luc intends to pry the secret from her. ”I don’t think slavery much suits you. Does the asshole have a name?”
Subtlety is not his strong point – not when blunt cruelty is so much more efficient.
Whispers and warnings on the wind have intimated that this section of the world could be come dangerous for him shortly, and it is only for a vague hope and stubborn sentimentality that he has lingered this long. While Luc is not as ancient as some of his kin, nightwalkers or otherwise, he has done enough in his comparatively short lifetime to make something of a name for himself – it is not a particularly good one, but well known is the temper of the vampire de Chiel. He has enjoyed the infamy with the same cocksure disposition that suggests he is nigh invulnerable, that toothy grin of his that has made both friends and enemies alike.
It is the former – he hopes – that he waits for now, an acquaintance of the past whom has recently become more interesting than he would freely admit. That the sphinx would get herself caught up in some trouble is not entirely a surprise – she always had a head for planning, but her holier-than-thou nature compared to even his arrogance on levels of irritation – but for the life of him, Luc cannot track down a hint as to what has become of her. That means power is involved, and power means the vampire is irrevocably intrigued. Mal being one of his few remaining associates doesn’t hurt, either; and it is for this that he has risked lengthening his stay in eastern Europe.
War is a messy, clumsy thing, and though he does not fear it, Luc does not much care for its influence. He has no desire to further profit from the warmachine like a clever and business-savvy buzzard, feeding off carrion for bloody revenue, but this is more thanks to apathy and lassitude than any flickering spark of conscience; buried deeper still is the memory of the wars of his youth, of the causes he championed and the losses he suffered, and the decades in between have seen Luc grow selfishly weary of such involvement. It squanders what enjoyment the vampire still finds in the world, and it is for these reasons that his leg is restless, his foot tapping, his gazed tossed impatiently over his shoulder too frequently.
He has been seeing soldiers in the streets more and more, and this thought brings a petulant frown to his lips. The man’s hand travels unconsciously to the breast pocket of his frock coat, finding comfort in the tickets safely contained there.
When the woman shows up, all traces of his unease – not nervousness, never, only an irritated sullenness – disappears in the flash of his predatory grin. The pleasure in his eyes at her appearance is, for once, honest, and the man lazily kicks out the chair opposite him to allow her to sit. ”Ludmilla,” he intones softly, greeting her with a nod of his head and two fingers touched to the brim of his flat cap. ”It’s been too long.”
A flick of his hand sees two drinks arrive, and Luc plays with his glass lazily before abandoning tact entirely and cutting to their meeting’s purpose. He watches the dark-haired women from beneath thick lashes, the edges of his smile turned up in knowing play. ”Word on the wind is you’ve gotten in over your head on something. Someone.” And how could he know she had been bound to Ithkus all this time? It is fresh news to the vampire, and Luc intends to pry the secret from her. ”I don’t think slavery much suits you. Does the asshole have a name?”
Subtlety is not his strong point – not when blunt cruelty is so much more efficient.