albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[He lingers there a moment longer, fingers stilling in the coarse fabric of his coat.] Flattering. [There's dissmisiveness to his tone that suggests he isn't charmed by the idea, much as she isn't in turn. Two of a kind.] Though I can't argue with the logic behind it.

[Which is precisely what keeps him from going further, grip lax enough to let his hand fall limp at his side, index finger tapping out one thoughtful little rhythm.] Dinner instead. I'll have the servants come up with something suitable.

[One short pause:] Provided neither your father nor brother would take offense.

Edited 2015-11-20 09:23 (UTC)

[There. It's no evening spent just behind the orchestra pit enjoying the newest round of G&S comedy, but she finds herself contented by the way he gives anyway. It's a kind of victory, isn't it? It's what she'd wanted anyway - simply enough, his company.

She drains the rest of her cup.]

I can't imagine they'll have any opinion on the matter.

[Not strictly true by any account, but they had nothing to do with any of this. She has no qualms about shelving their concerns for the time being. Besides, no one needs to know. As far as her brother and father are concerned, she's spending the evening at the theater with nothing more than unwilling company.]

Is that so? [This time when he turns to face her, there's no hiding the hint of a grin held just at the edge; rigid as her father had taught her to be, it's satisfying to find-- no matter the circumstances-- that she's just as much the strong-hearted troublemaker as he or Malory were. Not maliciously so, mind you, but there's beauty to be found in individuality. In the painfully thin line between service for a cause and blind, clipped obedience.

She charts her own course, and he'd be a fool not to appreciate it. Many were.] I had no idea they cared so little about your personal affairs, Lady Igraine.

Fortunately, the both of them have more pressing matters to attend to than checking that I'm still pinned to the apron strings. [Honestly, what does he take her for? A child in need of minding?] Though I admit they hardly have an alternative. I imagine it would be rather difficult to keep someone penned in and also expect them to go mucking about all over London in pursuit of Half-Breeds.

[And back again to crossing one leg satisfactorily over the other: her heel fishing cheerfully through the air.]

So it would. [But Lucan would care. Lucan always thought Grayson the man to keep their world in check, after all. Reasons he never fully understood, though maybe it had something to do with centuries of stupid, boyish impulse between them. Imbeciles charging into battle, playing knights at war with real weapons, real wars-- real bloodshed. Long before Lucan became a commander with a proud, hardened edge to his jaw, they were friends.]

All things considered, [He starts, walking to the archway that leads out into lobby, catching the attention of his staff.] you ought to be the one minding them.

[Quiet words exchanged between himself and the elder man, and then he's back at her side, patting her leg.] He says they'll find something suitable-- they've not been shopping regularly for company. I can't imagine why.

[She hums, eyebrows arching, but offers no argument or support fornhis supposition as he moves to speak to his man. Instead she pours herself a second cup of tea, fixing it how she likes with a small clink of the silver spoon against the edge of the cup. If she listens hard she can hear most of what he and his man say, but she doesn't - listen hard. Rather she settles in the parlor and lets herself be comfortable. She sips from her cup and is-- pleased with herself.

The tap to her knee isn't a surprise. She lifts her face to him, lowering her cup and saucer back into her lap.] Imagine that. In the mean time, I don't suppose you've something a little more formidable than tea on hand?

[Fight with the tenacity of any knight, control the local authorities just as keenly-- it should come as no surprise that she's willing to drink more than milk, sugar and steeped herbs. But for all his centuries lived, it's difficult for him to jump to the thought of hard liquor, inhaling once through his nose as he mulls over her request. Taps out a light beat with his index finger against her thigh.] well, I've a bottle of wine in the cellar that is substantially older than you or your brother.

[She feels the rhythm struck by his finger in the marrow of her bones, pulse singing to it. Isabeau makes some effort to put it out of her mind, though how successful she is even she can't say.]

I can't imagine what I've done to deserve cracking open a bottle so ancient, but I suppose I can't refuse the offer.

[Mild, easy, absolutely cheeky.]

I believe it's customary for a mentor to celebrate when his own protégé saves him. [Smugly, though that teasing satisfaction never leaves his voice enough to reach the almost grim angles of his features. Palm upturned just a moment later; an offering for her to accompany him down to the ancient cellar below.] Perceval spared no expense the first night I managed it.

Mongolian hordes, it was - if memory still serves.

Good god, I seem to have stumbled into yet another ancient history lesson. Heaven help me. [She all but groans over it, though from the fact that she's made no effort to move or set her teacup aside, clearly the whole charade is for show.]

Tell me, my lord - how did you bravely escape with yours and Sir Perceval's lives? It must have been terribly daring.

I fear if I let slip the entire tale your heart might never recover. [His hand stays there, ever patient as he waits for her inevitable breaking point, fingers only half-curled, though he doesn't spare it an expectant glance. Cheeky, yes, but he has no doubt their entire evening thus far has been as well.]

You underestimate me, Sir. I understand many young ladies might swoon at the story, but I guarantee [--she sets aside her teacup bow, small click of porcelain on the tray--] that I'm made of stener stuff.

[Or so they say, apparently.

She sets her hand into his, touch firm as she rolls smartly to her feet. For all the cheek, there's nothing terribly coy about how she doesn't immediately draw her hand from his. Instead she lets it set just there, the heel of her hand against the heat of his upturned palm.]

Well? Lead on, my lord.

You've killed monsters that cut men's lives short, love. [There's something sober to the way he says it, brought on by the pressure of her warm palm settled just there across old scores and callouses, the edge of his thumb first scuffing her knuckles before curling over with utility in mind, rather than the indulgence he's already stolen. Hazel eyes bright in the dim light, dropping down and then up again, as purposeful as everything else.

Somewhere off in the manor, there's the sound of heels clicking dimly across polished wood.] I know you are.

[She always was, or he'd have never agreed to take her under his wing when the opportunity arose. Tucks her arm beneath his at last, ferrying her from the parlor out into the hall, decorated with relics all too personal to be coincidence.]

[It's part of why this - her arm tucked into his, Gray's fingers curled still near her hand as he leads her from the sitting room - has appeal. She has saved him a hundred times as he's done for her; she's seen him slay countless beasts in the dark, but in turn he's trusted her to do the same. What good would this be if they didn't trust one another? She can't begin to imagine it. If there wasn't some shared faith between them, if he didn't know her to be capable and sure in the same ways she knew it of him, then there would be no reason to tuck her hand across his wrist or wall so near through the hall as she was led.]

And yet you continue to hold this grand story hostage. I might start to think you've been exaggerating, Gray. In the future, I'll have to check your against Perceval's good word.

[Oh, she's full of it. Always fire and bright eyes, no matter the situation-- same as her brother, remarkably-- enough that Gray begins to wonder if that's thanks to kinship between siblings, or if Augustus himself hides something else, something keener behind those cloudy, poorly focused eyes. Long as he's known Alastair, and as deeply as he knows Isabeau, he still isn't sure.

And it leaves him chuckling under his breath, thumbing the back of her knuckles the way someone might brush at a beloved pet when it's too riled to settle. She digs because the opportunity is there; Grayson opts not to boast (tired as he's felt the last few centuries, and perhaps a touch too worn, those ancient habits from his youth died off without protest) but there's reason to his reputation born from action instead of words, and it means Sir Galahad is a man without an ego to bruise.

He caters to her all the same.] Have you been told about the Battle on the Ice?

No, never. [Said with all the breathlessness she can summon, as if she's hanging from his every word. Still, she's confident enough about being swept along the hall and around. When they reach the door to the cellar, Isabeau's the one extending a hand forward to open it.]

Let me guess-- it occurred on a frozen lake?

So it did. [Amicably following her eager lead, flicking the electrical switch on as they head downstairs. A more recent addition, better than candlelight and set in place by Tesla who-- in spite of Galahad's assurance that the old manor did not in fact, need a current run down to the cellar rather than keeping Edison's wiring where it was (upstairs entirely, save for the attic)-- fought a remarkable battle in the name of stumbling insistence.] Territory was a volatile thing, back then. Mongol hordes expanding eastward with success, and the Crusades, in turn, reaching westward to champion their cause, both clashing in the middle.

Perceval and I hadn't been sent to fight in the Holy Wars, mind you. Our charge was protection - sacred relics, rooting out any beasts that might sieze advantage in the fray. [No small surprise how little has changed aside from scenery since.] Young as I was, I could barely tell the difference.

[Step by old creaking step they descend to the smell of dust and dry air, rows of bottles lining those stone walls all plucked up over the course of a handful of lifetimes. Spent so infrequently it feels more like a tomb than a proper wine cellar.]

Ah, young as you were. This is a very old story indeed, sir Knight. [The word choice is selected to prico, though her tone is all overwrought and breathless still as they descend into the dull golden glow of the electric lamps and into the belly of the cellar.

There is a wet chill here, the smell of dust - inevitable in these London homes - so she feels no compunctions about keeping her arm wrapped in his as they move farther into the cellar. His side provides some welcome comfort of heat, after all.]

Please, go on. What led you from artifacts to ice?

True enough. [Teasing accepted without complaint, breathing in steady and low as cool, crisp air settles into his lungs. Takes him back beyond the story he's telling, leaving him ever closer to her side while he tracks down one single, heavy bottle coated in thick dust-- hand-blown, by the looks of it. Possibly as old as he claims.] Ah-- here we are.

Unholy creatures were just as prevalent, just as masked as they are now. Often Perceval would be sent out as a promissory safeguard for allies or dignitaries in dangerous areas, other times the church itself would make false claims of lycans or vampires, hoping to turn the Crusades to their favor. This time, however, it was all because a number of eastmen were using war to ferry holy relics from Slavic territory for little more than a profit.

[Even with the electric bulb overhead, the cellar is dark and dusty. If he's going to stand close, her response is to draw his arm even nearer to her.]

And these Slavic relics - were they of any interest whatsoever to the half breeds?

[Her tone has the same cheek tonit, but the question is a serious one and her attention has been piqued - by both the bottle he's drawing from the rack and the details of the story. For all that she's giving him a rough time of it, now that he's found his way to the interesting parts--]

[This time he chuckles without meaning to-- arm lending itself easily to the way she draws him in with both her question and the pull of her hand, warm agains her side, so near to the subtle beating of her heart beneath her ribs.]

Indeed they were. Our Order drew supposed power from relics beyond their understanding, naturally they were keen to find ways to do the same. [The light switch is clicked off in passing, door halfheartedly shut to keep from holding either of them back in stride, returning to the brightly lit warmth of tall hallways.] Not so different from the motivations that drive them now.

So they pursued your party?

[She reaches to pull the door the rest of the way closed behind them, but it's a too late afterthought - her fingers do little more than brush against the pull before he's led her beyond reaching it - and she's more in favor of sticking to his side than making sure his cellar door is latched properly, so to hell with it.]

Edited 2015-12-01 18:50 (UTC)

They pursued our target. [Vital clarification, though it comes as something of an afterthought when he nearly bypasses the cabinet he needs, turning back on his heel in the moment, unintentionally setting her between the wooden bar at her back and-- well, him, to say the least. Bottle set down across the counter like he might somehow make this more of a bid at utility than a social faux pas, though the silence left behind is anything but. Shallow breath, the warmth of his rough fingers still curled across hers, back set against the light.]

Yes of course--

[She is slow to move out of his way - it's an unexpected change of trajectory, though that's not really an excuse. How many times has she reflexively, instinctively shifted out of his line of fire in the field? Though they're not on the field now. Maybe that makes it excusable to find herself all but pinned in under the shadow of his arm, her hip gently checked against the shape of the bar.

Her hand is still, technically speaking, at his arm though her fingers have gone vague and light there. She is looking at his shoulder, a fixed wrinkle in the fabric from where he slept in his clothes.]

Grayson.

[She lifts her face, unsure if she means to check him.]

Mm. [Clearing his throat with his jawline there, hovering somewhere above her own eyeline as he gently moves to draw her away from the cabinet, ignoring how tempting it is to stay settled with her so close-- so fundamentally different from how he'd shielded her hundreds of times in a firefight or from the hard snap of a lycan's jaws. How she'd always returned the favor in full regardless of priorities or directives.

Difficult to consider standing in as what Malory was to him for someone else. Someone suited for a better life.]

It's been a long day. Forgive me.

OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

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