albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

Indeed it is, Isi. [Gruff and equally amused, judging by the tilt of his moustache as she approaches. Between the two of them she looks far better off, but no aspect of that is restricted to these specific circumstances - Lady Igraine is a beautiful creature with an equally deadly hand. And he, at least, is centuries younger than he looks, which is in the grand scheme of things, not so much an accomplishment.] Shall I inform your nanny that you've returned?

If you would. You know how he worries. [There's a wry tilt to the corner of her mouth; she lifts her hand to shade her face from flecks of rain and nods to the water basin, the faint ghost of blood there.] I take it your visit to the Underground was business as usual.

[The past few weeks had been consumed by the idle hunt of a nest of half breeds using older segments of tunnel to move about the city. Flushing them out had thus far been an exercise in frustration, but by all appearances it seems he's been successful in finding -- well, something in any case.]

Ah. [There's a levelness to his tone there, chin lifting in the way it always does when he talks about business. Instinct, really, which works in his favor.] I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of my assignment.

[Ass.]

Oh please.

[Ass. She rolls her eyes and drops her hand, moving finally under the shelter of the stone archway. She has little interest in rushing to an early morning meeting of the council, not when she knows for a fact that at least half their number is likely to lag behind for any number of reasons. Sir Morien's ability to tell time hadn't improved since the bloody sundial was in vogue.]

If it makes you feel more accomplished, I found very little on my end of things.

[He chuckles low under his breath, shaking the rain from his fingertips before following suit. That's his girl.] Not due to a shortage of cleverness, I imagine.

[In truth he'd found little aside from a small pocket of resistance-- nothing worth spent effort and nothing he was particularly satisfied with, but not every assignment was, and he's lived long enough to know that much by default.] They're growing cautious.

Someone is aiding them.

Or they've found positions in the right places with which to help themselves.

[After all, very little separated a half breed from a human. Even with their disgust for humanity, their lust of blood, they might pass for a time in society undetected. Who was to say there wasn't a lycan working in some high position on the dock yards or with the underground's maintenance crews? Someone could be pulling the strings from a cushy chair.]

In any case, there are bigger concerns on the horizon. Did you see the papers this morning?

I can't say I had the time. [Never mind the fact that he's been standing here waiting for the better part of an hour; his time is his own to spend however he cares to when not on duty. Galahad's eyeline shifts, taking in the grey city streets for all of half a beat before meeting her own stare expectantly.]

Then I'll be the first to deliver the happy news to you.

[Her expression is very severe, her brow rather arch. It's a dangerous look at her, promising a considerable amount of trouble soon to come.]

It seems Gilbert and Sullivan's new opera is starting its run at the Savoy tonight. I'll show you the article after this business is resolved. It seemed rather good.

[She's joking - but also isn't at all.]

[He stands there for a moment longer, lips thinning out under the weight of a pinned exhale.

Isi... [ Stern to say the least. In part for her teasing, and in part for the idea that it might be entirely serious: Galahad Grayson sitting idle in the heart of the Savoy, surrounded by society's fashionably soft, is a mental image he doesn't care to entertain-- and he imagines she knows it already.]

[She gives him a flat look, a small shrug of her shoulders.] Well if you'd rather not, I'll find someone willing to do get the job done.

[Alastair would be the obvious choice; she could strong arm her brother into almost anything - suffering through a few hours of romping music and singing was hardly the most trying thing she'd asked of him. He might even, god forbid, enjoy himself. He'd supposedly liked the the melodies of Iolanthe when she'd clumsily reproduced them on the piano in their father's home.

Still, he wasn't her first choice.]

I hadn't realized it was a job. [Poor Lucan did much for his sister's benefit (they all did in their own right) but no one met the mark as he did, and Galahad doubts any man ever will. Eventually someone will-- come close enough with a ring and a promise and a life beyond the blackwater-- more than he could give her in war or peace.

Until then, they have bloodstained hands on grey, dismal days.] Is this meant to be a covert assignment?

[There are figures coming across the length of the courtyard - she can see the smudges of their outlines through the fog. That will be a handful more Knights, likely enough to begin this meeting. There is little reason to remain out here in the cold and damp. Still, she lingers - tips her attention back to him.]

I hardly think that's necessary, though I'm willing to bow to your expertise.

That would be a first. [He sees them as she does, the others closing in before the council convenes. Most arrive early- it isn't necessarily abnormal or related to their given tasks- but Galahad isn't eager to carry on the rest of their conversation between greetings, and there's little pause before he moves to open the door for her; an invitation at least to get the both of them out of the rain.]

I'll have you know I was once described as a very willing pupil, thank you.

[Said, naturally, as she sweeps past him and through his courteously open door. Seems that's all the witty repartee for the morning though as once inside she makes no effort to pause inside the hall before proceeding across the polished marble floor toward the central chamber.

The rest of this conversation can wait. If G&S's track record persists, the opera isn't going anywhere soon.]

[It was all in jest. That was the mantra he repeated in his head as the meeting concluded and he returned home to change and wash properly, letting the servants tend to the matter of his damp, bloodied uniform and what puddles they've left behind. Combed hair, the scent of oil over gunpowder - years carved away to expose sharper features via simple grooming and the comfort of a feathered couch.

If he's lucky he might manage to reverse the damage that's been done: convince her to stay the evening for supper rather than a night out in the company of bloody thespians. The odds are slim, he knows, yet hope springs eternal as the clock ticks on at his back.]

[She has other matters to attend to with the resolution of the Council meeting - namely hunting, tracking and capturing a few precious hours of sleep. There will be another line of inquiry to attend to tomorrow morning, but for the remainder of the day she's free to hide herself away in the darkest room she can find in her father's house and doze. When she wakes again, it's late in the afternoon. The clock in the hall is chiming. She counts the bells - four - and then levers herself up.

There is a small series of tasks she must accomplish - writing a few notes, tending to a minor affair with a creditor, but the bulk of her time she finds consumed by standing and regarding a series of dresses and hats. She's worn most of them only once, and she thinks she might--

No, she hates them all. Instead she finds a pair of breeches, a clean shirt. There's no less care to this - no fewer layers to what constitutes as uniform -, but there's considerably more comfort even with the steel gorget. Resolved, she dons a coat and sets off on foot.

It isn't a long walk, but it's wet and dreary and the chill has found her by the time she lets herself in through the small gate, taking the two steps to the door of Grayson's apartments in a single stride. Her knock has all the urgency of preferring to be out of the weather.]

[He is (as she would be, were the tables turned) beyond her immediate vicinity, one of the servants instead perched at the ready sees to ushering her inside out of the cold. It's the distant sound of voices in an otherwise hollow home that ought to cue him in well before she's led to the parlor, but he's lost in deep, drowning sleep on the lounge by the time she's there at his side, staff apologetic for the mistake on their part to the tune of Sir Galahad's pinched up snoring, Combed back hair now out of place where the arm rest has pushed it forward to drape across the span of his brow.]

[She isn't terribly surprised to find him in such a disheveled state - he'd seen more action in the evening than she had and despite the cheek, there was some truth to the fact that he was hardly a fresh spring daisy. She'd slept most of the day away herself. No shame in him requiring an extra hour or two.

--Not that she'd ever dream of letting him know he had so much allowance. Instead she lifts her chin by a degree, shoots him a knowing sideways look and makes her way to one of the chairs near his poor settee. She makes to wave his staff away, though it's hardly her place.]

I'm glad to see you've been looking forward to my visit, Gray.

Mm. When did-- [Shit. How long has he been asleep? --How long has she been there? Galahad sits up, smearing one calloused palm across the span of his face, inhaling sharply enough to be audible in the dim, dreary surroundings. Barely recognizing them aside from the angles of her features, the scent of perfumed hair so vastly different from anything kept in his own house.] Forgive me, I meant to be a better host than this.

[She exhales out something of a laugh, all light and dismissive as she sways down into the armchair. Isabeau kicks one leg easily over the other, knee over knee - easy enough despite the distinctive lack of social grace on his part.]

I may eventually find it in myself to forgive you. In any case, I suspect your man is hurrying to the kitchen to put on a pot of tea as we speak. Not to worry, your blunder is being smoothed over for you.

[She's merciless about her teasing, but it's clear enough by the ease of her demeanor and the lightness of her expression that it's nothing more than that.]

Hnn. [That noise low in his throat, the one he always uses in place of a smile or laugh when the urge to respond fails to betray his gruff, rugged exterior. He manages to sit up, at least, still weary with sleep and the reluctance to rise that comes with old age, hand falling to her thigh-- use there above the knee so as not to be improper--with a weight that's all familiar and sincere; she's under no obligation to be so patient, given the circumstances. He would expect less from anyone else, and that Isabeau tolerates it (in spite of her teasing) translates to appreciation on his part, whatever her reasons.

There's the distant sound of clattering in the kitchen, however, and he suspects she's right.] It seems I'm a fortunate man for many reasons.

[She pats his hand in return. It is a brief point of contact, her hand calloused and his knuckles worn, and then it's gone and she's leaning to rest against the arm of the chair, fingers lacing idly.]

Well it's only taken you a handful of centuries, but I'm glad you've begun to realize it.

[That said, she's not about to let him fully recover; she might as well get as much advantage out of his half-sleep as she can. Let no one say she cannot recognize a strategic advantage when it all but falls into her lap.]

Now, I'm prepared to give you a half hour more but after that we'll need to be on our feet if we're to make the curtain.

[Small gestures, small comforts, all things beyond his station-- their long lives spent watching others flicker and extinguish, social fancies coming and leaving only to be replaced with something else what feels like a breath later-- he barely remembers the names of his own staff anymore, how little he sees of them before they're gone. So there's value in her hand across his knuckles, even where restraint has him hesitant at soft, informal gestures.

She is a wonder in her own right, and he has little claim to any of it.] Now I understand the words I've heard whispered in Westminster so often: you are cruel, Lady Igraine, dragging an old dog from his bed.

Do they really say that?

[She sounds, for lack of a better word, pleased by the whole idea. Not that she thinks it's true, of course. She smiles (a very small edge of teeth) and lifts her hand to set her chin over her knuckles, giving him an easy direct look. He's a sight - mussed and half-rested, his shirt rumpled. If they weren't brothers in arms, so to speak, his lack of a coat would be inconsiderate - too casual by far. But here they are. Someone would have to strike fifty years from the record before she thought to be embarrassed by the lack of care.]

They do indeed, I'm afraid. [Neck stretched back against the armrest, working actively to shake the ache from his bones. The pains comes more often these days, and he suspects as the years go on it'll only grow more pressing. Age is a curse, but one not devoid of pleasure or company, duty or honor; he wants for none of it, fortunate as he is. And, muscles shaken from their state, Galahad finally moves to right himself, careful not to jostle his companion in the process. Careful shifting, courteous measures.

His servant sets a tray beside them: hot tea, and pleasant little confections, though likely baked at least a day prior, given how infrequently the knight returns to his own home.] Another year and you'll take the Lord Chancellor's place, or so the rumors say.

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idk time skip??

TIME WARP

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