dearestdarkling

[dearestdarkling]

who: @kaliofruin where: conclave gala, part two

Another day, another dead witch.

Eleanor picks her way through the crowd, slow and disaffected, with the air of someone who'll need much more than the carved up remains of Fia whoever-the-fuck to stir her interest. It clearly matters enough to warrant a summons from their queen bee, however. Lucky her.

She lands quietly at Kali's table, schooling her expression into something that could pass for deference, if you squinted. Frankly, she's tired. Too much dancing, drinking, and far too much small talk has obliterated what remained of her already barely there social meter. So she dispenses with the usual barbs and manages to discipline her tone into something that hides every pointed edge. "Yes?"

[dearestdarkling]

She was very chatty, Romy. Seemed to carry herself with the sort of energy you envied in people who went jogging at six in the morning, with a little dash of movie star charisma to boot. For a fraction of a second Eleanor considered asking her for a bump of whatever she was on before noting that her heart sounded perfectly fine. So this was just natural. Wow. Someone should put her in a romcom. "Eleanor," she returned, raising her own glass in response and trying not to sound too dead inside, which was a tough ask in face of such stiff competition. "I hope you mean he tried exchanging Linkedins with it and not that you saw someone put their dick in a ficus." With this crowd, though? Who knows. There'd already been a raccoon in a dress. The line between that and Bedlam was thin enough as it was. "And there are worse obituaries. Least that one singles you out as a woman of character."

The bartender arrived with their shots. "Keep them coming," she instructed, as though Romy had ever consented to a coma. "Vodka's mostly water," she said offhandedly, turning over Romy's shot to her with the same only half there smile. "Breathe in through your nose first, then let it out of your mouth after the shot. Helps with the burn." Eleanor proceeded to not heed her own advice (the astringent burn appealed to some masochistic part of her), downing the shot and settling back against the bar next to Romy.

With a clear view of the gala floor she decided to try and take the edge off the boredom, especially now that she seemed to have tolerable company. Eleanor gestured at the crowd with her shot glass, pointing out a ghoulish looking vampire with long stringy hair, garish yellow and pink dress robes, and eyebags for days. "So. Smash or pass?"

Romy froze like someone had just accused her of kicking a puppy in front of a live studio audience. Her eyes went comically wide for a second — the art curator? dead brother? final moments? — and for a breathless beat, she was sure she was going to have to slide under the bar and die quietly among the bitters and bar mats. But then the woman smiled, and Romy exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the Renaissance. “Oh my god,” she groaned, pressing a hand to her chest in mock-offense. “I was two seconds from writing you an apology haiku on a cocktail napkin. You can’t just drop a fake tragic backstory like that, I bruise emotionally. Some of us are fragile.” But she was smiling now too — a little lopsided, a little breathless, but real.

She glanced toward the bartender, catching the glint of chilled glass, and gave a tiny shrug that said welp, guess we’re doing this now. “One more drink won’t kill me,” she said, though it came with a pointed glance at her very much over-it heels. “But it’s gotta be my last if I want to leave here upright and not like a fancy crime scene chalk outline. Can’t have my obituary read: Local woman tragically vodka’d to death under chandelier.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of the bar as she turned just enough to face Eleanor more directly. “Romy,” she offered, a beat late, lifting her glass in greeting. “And just for the record, if you were the kind of woman who drinks vodka like water and curates grief furniture for sport… honestly? That’d still only be, like, top five weirdest things I’ve seen at this gala.” A pause, then a wry tilt of her head. “And that includes the guy I’m pretty sure tried to network with a ficus.”

[dearestdarkling]

His face goes cold and it's the car ride all over again. Why do people ask questions if they're not ready to hear the answers? Self-defeating, and the fastest way to wring the enjoyment out of a good song. There's a beat of silence like a held breath, while Dion issues his warnings on Sue. She holds Dan's gaze a moment too long and once again has to blink away the memory of another face, another life. It's a neat little trick of theirs, this switch. Shame it can't wipe everything.

To his credit, Dan recovers quicker this time, just as she'd started to lose interest in dancing altogether. "Antics," she repeats, none too eager to elaborate. It'd been aggravating enough having to tell him about the verbena months back, and she'd done so only out of necessity. She won't be making it a habit. "Nothing worth going into."

Not even touching on the frog—she'd seen the raccoon earlier that evening. The place is a nuthouse; news at eleven. "Been here for a year, four months, and sixteen days. If anything were ever as easy as walking out a front door, you'd never see me again."

The song barrels into a new verse as they spin around the dance floor. "What about you? Give me... your favorite song, your favorite co-worker, and the reason you think Aria needs looking out for."

Their little dance picks up a bit, and he feels a little more at home with this kind of rhythm. He can't help but breathe out a quiet laugh at her dig, pulling a quizzical look at her as they move together. "Now I'm not the smartest guy but I'm not that far gone."

The conversation continues though, and her answer to his question stones his expression. He's often wondered, when he hears vampires talk about 'turning it off', if that's what had happened to him while he and his war buddies were being held under that castle. Years of poking and prodding, hidden from the sun. At some point, well before they'd escaped, they'd all become vampires, and at some point, the idea that he'd never see the outside again had simply stopped mattering. Eventually, things had come back - regret, remorse, despair, fury. He'd chalked it up to shell-shock, and hell, maybe that's what it was.

Maybe, he wonders in the moment, that's what turning it off is.

"Antics, huh?" He wonders if he should press.

Dan's eyes scan the place, see if he can catch Ha-Jeong skulking. "I think I saw her distracted with ... a frog? earlier, so you know, you could make a break for it. Kali's even distracted."

[dearestdarkling]

Kanemaru does ring a distant bell. The other newbies, so she hears. Upstarts, some sneer. It's all the same to her. A monster's still a monster, no matter how posh their pedigree. "Close to home, then, these targets? They always cut the deepest, don't they?"

Liquidation. That's certainly the neatest way she's ever heard it put. Might as well join in and say she's in production, Kali's in sales, and Reardon's one big pyramid scheme. "Liquidation. Military. An eye for a good drink. I'm clearly talking to a woman of many talents. Remind me never to get on your bad side." Praise is something she offers sparingly these days, but it's hard not to appreciate the moment for what it is. She rarely gets to speak this frankly with others.

What would you be doing? Eleanor smiles something cynical. What would she be doing, if she had a choice? Drug binges? Building a time machine? Traversing continents? Searching for an ending, she thinks. It doesn't even need to be kind anymore. Just final. "... Lounging in the sun with a crappy beach read," she answers after a pause; an amendment follows shortly. "It's what half the room's here for tonight, isn't it?"

Her eyebrow raises in silent challenge to her words. Leone has seen enough of the worst people in the world to know that casual comments like that can have a grain of truth to them, but there is no desire to pry deeper beyond a passing curiosity at the way she chooses to describe her situation. "I couldn't say I care particularly about the clan politics, but I suppose that's why I've ended up in Kanemaru's octopus arms," she admits freely. Nsilo provides a steady leadership but she doesn't meddle, which is something that Leone has appreciated over the years. "My targets tonight are more, ah, personal in nature."

Leone receives her drink and shoos off the waiter, turning her full attention back onto one of the first people to capture it all evening. "Absolutely charmed to meet you, Eleanor. I work in liquidation," she replies breezily, offering no elaboration to her words. "It's mostly tedium, planning out the small details and the satisfaction of a job well done, but any job that lets me fill out my passport is a good one." She pauses briefly. "Scratch that, other than the military," she wrinkles her nose. "How about you? If you don't want to be here, what would you be doing?"

[dearestdarkling]

This is stupid. Who dances like this? At Daniel's suggestion Eleanor glances at the other pairs surrounding them and swiftly decides that dancing like a cross between a monkey and a geriatric is something she will not be doing tonight. "Not happening, I still have my pride," she snipes. In lieu of stalking off the dance floor, though, she rests one hand on the back of his shoulder, lifts the other, the one still locked in his, and surrenders to the bouncy tempo so that they're both moving along with it. There's a touch of sullenness to her expression still, but it's the kind of doo-wop song that sweeps you up whether you want it to or not. "—even if a Nigerian prince has clearly scalped yours."

She considers the question for a beat. "I turned it off," a simple admission, no frills. There's not much to say on the subject. "And Kali's not one for too many variables. If she can't control it, she'll want to flatten it to where it doesn't matter anymore. Figure tonight was too important for her to risk any antics. So, I get Ha-Jeong. And you get a supervised asset for a dance partner. Enjoy."

He can't help but laugh. "Hard not to date myself, but hey, at least I can figure out the internet. I've only been scammed two or three times." It's a stupid, stupid joke, but like a lot of things, he just lets himself say it.

"Well, in my experience," he says as he pushes his other hand into hers, too. "You kind of just... figure it out as you go."

That's not at all how it's done, he knows - he's danced before, and all kinds of it, but he's never been great at it, but that on-the-fly way of doing things has worked out pretty well so far. "Yeah, see, look, we're shuffling. Just copy what they're doing." He says, gesturing with his head at the handful of others taking the opportunity.

But now he's got her alone, he decides on something very stupid - prying. "So, why've they got you such a short leash?"

[dearestdarkling]

So when he'd cut and run, he'd really committed. Surprising, only in so far as Quin and committed were two words she would've never thought to pair together. She couldn't imagine the levels of disorientation that came with being turned nearly two thousand years ago. Her own transformation had been jarring enough, but make it a pre-tech, religious world with next to no resources to sort through what the fuck was happening to you? It was a wonder he'd made it this far. Especially with his... tendencies. "Good call." And whether she meant having stayed away from his family or having made a buffet of wanderers was left open to interpretation.

Well, she was no Eva Green, but it would do. Eleanor studied her reflection in the mirror as Quin clasped on the necklace. She decided she liked knots. They made something useful out of disorder. Bound things together. She was sure she had more than enough of them inside her head, just nowhere as elegant. Quin stepped back and after a few brief turns in front of the mirror, she refocused her attention back on him. "I like it. You should pick jewelry back up as a hobby, play to your strengths. Sell it, even." She was already picturing what horrific profile picture she'd force on him for an Etsy account when he asked a question. "It's in the name," She held out the necklace to point out the interlaced knots. "Symbol of enduring love. It's given to the character by someone she betrays Bond over and she drowns herself out of guilt in the end. And on that cheerful note," Eleanor picked up the skirt of her dress which dragged a little without heels on and gestured over to the backroom. "We can start going. I'll take care of them."

She picked her way through the mess of clothes they'd left dumped on the floor and made for the backroom. A few minutes later, Eleanor returned with a sheet of drawing paper in one hand and the last peals of laughter. "Told them to give us a few before coming out, but, ah—he drew you something. After he finished the coloring book."

Eleanor held out the sheet of paper. It was a childish drawing of Quin as a dog. The giveaway that it was him? The horrifically exaggerated pair of big blue eyes that were roughly the size of the dog's entire face. And a scrawl of handwriting at the top: scary puppy.

"Congratulations. You're an official member of the Paw Patrol."

“They didn’t know. I never went to see them.” He let her pick over his selections of necklaces, withdrawing the hand with the gold jewelry after she voiced her preference for silver. “They might have heard rumors about a creature with my face that had been killing and eating travellers, but I doubt it. I did not let my meals walk away.” Or anyone else, meal or otherwise. The typical story of a newer vampire having few confusing, hungry weeks to either stumble into a clan or fall on a hunter’s stake had stretched into more years than he was willing to admit. He wasn’t going to delude himself into thinking Eleanor saw him as a particularly good example of self-control, but “I started running when I was turned, and I never stopped” always sounded a little better than “I killed and ate every person I saw for nearly a decade until I saw my son and shocked myself to start acting like a person again”. 

He didn’t know when he’d started caring what she might think of him, but it was always better to be branded a born coward than an animal. He held the hand with the gold jewelry up, squinting at the metalwork. He had only picked what he thought might look nice on her, but on closer inspection, it was only well-made pieces. “Not when I was human. I worked with a lot of jewelry when I was traveling. It is good work, if you know where to find towns where their smiths do not do little detailed work. People do not care about me only working at night when they know they can leave an order in the evening and have it finished by morning.”

He took the offered necklace, eyeing it closely before placing it carefully around her neck and clasping it, taking a step back so he was not crowding the reflection as she inspected the way it looked with the dress. “I know about James Bond, but I don’t think I saw that movie. Did this necklace mean anything?”

[dearestdarkling]

She gets something of a kick out of Aria's reaction, in part because it's been a minute since she's spoken with anyone that has even the vaguest body of reference for the world of pop culture. But, mostly? It's just funny to see her squirm. "Different strokes for different folks. Parker Posey in Party Girl was more my speed. But, anyway, keep a wide berth between you and your girlfriend's maw, if you value your skin."

Green eyes run a slow circuit between Aria and Dan as they pick at each other, sibling like. There's a passing thought there that Dan's hero complex will invariably land him on Kali's bad side one day and that Aria's likely to get dragged into it. She flicks away the thought, and some ash, against the bar. That'll be for them to sort out.

"We're the backup dancers, here to make her look her shiniest. Can't sell the brilliant clan leader brand without the clan," she says, and follows his nod in Aria's direction, vaguely impressed. She's little interest in daylight jewelry, but from what she understands it's a hot commodity. "Don't be a dick. Come on, she's at least twelve," and she's about to say more—more teases at Aria's expense (because it feels ritualistic to break in the new kid and she's curious to see her bite back) and to ask after Dan's own quest for a ring—but speak of the devil.

"I need some air," she announces, turning away from the sight of Kali's approaching figure. An abrupt exit, but it's just as well. This was all getting a little too chummy for her liking. Eleanor looks at Aria one last time. "Stay away from Vincent. Respect Ha-Jeong. Don't respect Nolan. Ask Quin if his accent's French," a brief pause and she offers an insincere smile. "And enjoy Kali."

A nod in Dan's direction and she slips by them both, disappearing into the crowd.

@photoaria

She's about to respond to the bits about Kali, but gets totally distracted by the way Daniel refers to Autumn. Blood pools in her cheeks as she's reminded of a night involving a muzzle. Clearing her throat, she simply takes a drag from her cigarette to ease off some of that nervous blushing. Her dog? Jesus Christ.

Aria files away the way Eleanor refers to Kali, and the look in her eyes: undecipherable, but interesting. Maybe she follows up on that when there's not as many eyes around. Just the three of them, if they can manage it.

"Uh. If it will, I had no fucking idea." She scratches at her forehead with the hand that's holding the cigarette. "Good to know. Regardless, from what I'm told we were dating before she got bit. I don't know, don't remember." A shrug, then, and a laugh. "But that one Lucy scene's pretty fucking hot." Ginger Snaps, too, but for different reasons there.

She looks up to Daniel, "She's here, mingling with her pack probably. Were you stalking her?"

@dannyriv

[dearestdarkling]

Maybe it's a good thing that Dan shows up when he does; she's half a second away from throwing her drink in the face of some bartender who won't stop landing spittle all over her whenever he wanders over to this corner of the bar. Feels like a surefire way to get cut off for the rest of the night. "... I try to be," she says dryly, throwing a dirty look at the bartender's back. "Don't always get my way. So, you're done big brothering Aria?"

The request catches her off guard. She blinks slowly, taking in the music for the first time since she'd posted up at the bar earlier that night. The song sounds vaguely familiar; energetic and bouncy in that old school kind of way. "You're aging yourself again," she says pointedly, but takes his hand anyway. There's not much else she could be doing. "How do you even dance to this? Sounds like something you shuffle to."

@dearestdarkling

"You look a little alone." He says as he meanders a bit closer.

The cocktail hour and dinner party thing had been potentially the most boring fifty-five to sixty minutes of his life outside of a few momentary highlights. But as the drinking winds down, and the eating spindles out into something a bit more indulgent he finds himself bored in a different kind of way. He doesn't want to bug Kali or Gael about the jewelry, not here and not tonight, antsy as he is.

There's a song playing, all strings and keys and subtle woodwinds and he can't help but feel nostalgic. "You dance?"

He holds his hand out to Eleanor. "No pressure to perform, I'm all left feet."

[dearestdarkling]

The passage of time made for strange bedfellows. She could still remember her first conversation with Quin and how he'd clammed up on the subject of his siblings. A year later and she was getting a name, a background, and an ending. Charles and Minora. Two older siblings, born centuries apart on different continents, across vastly different lifetimes. Memorialized now by two vampires in formal wear who'd just banished a child to a purgatory of Paw Patrol drawings. Another of life's many absurdities. She'd once thought if she just looked hard enough, she'd find some meaning to it all. But she'd stopped thinking that way a while ago. There was no great lesson here. Sometimes symmetry was just symmetry. Sometimes your siblings died and took all their care with them. Sometimes you died, but came back something different. Something worse. And sometimes the closest thing you could find to someone who still gave a shit was the walking travesty standing across from you with a possum tie tucked away in his pocket. "They never found out? About the vampirism?"

"Silver," she answered, snagging the glass of champagne from him as he made his way over to the jewelry. She hadn't meant the question as a command, but it was nice to see him be proactive for once. Maybe it would be a bummer, if he left. Eleanor drained the glass in his absence, fussing with her hair in front of the mirror, when he reappeared with half a dozen chains dangling from his fingers. She almost laughed. He looked like one of those con artists with fake gold watches lining the inside of their trench coats. Surprisingly, all his choices were fantastic. What the fuck? "You're right, yeah. Was jewelry one of the things you forged?" she asked, running her fingers along the chains to inspect them. "You've got a weirdly good eye for it."

Eleanor stopped at a silver necklace with an elegant knot woven at the center. She'd seen this before. "Oh, it's the Algerian Love Knot. From Casino Royale?" A pause; she'd forgotten who she was talking to. "It's a James Bond movie. You have to know James Bond. Point is, it's a cool piece." Never mind that the woman who wears it drowns in the movie. Part of the appeal, really. She took it from Quin, angling it to get a better view, then held it back out to him with an air of expectancy. "Can you put it on?"

Quin huffed at the mention of his home being France, no real malice behind it. Eleanor knew him well enough to get what buttons were fair game to push, and he wasn’t going to bite back when she was offering to fulfill that particular favor. That might mean having to dwell too much on the worry about getting into a situation where he really would have to leave, and that usually turned into packing a second bag and leaving before any sort of trouble could find him. He really didn't want to do that. Running without a real reason only made him feel like the other reasons he'd started to run in the past might not have been real, either.

“Most of my older siblings were too old to know me, except for my older sister. Minora was my only full sibling, so she lived near the kitchen with our mother.” He made his way over to the champagne, pouring out two glasses as Eleanor disappeared into the changing room. “She would have been the favorite, if she were a son. Smarter than I was, smarter than any of our brothers. She knew that if I continued to have trouble speaking or reading, I would be ruled as a waste of food and space, and she worked to find something I could do. She is the one who first put tools into my hands and pushed me towards a forge.” He downed the champagne, more for the taste than any buzz it might give. “I was only able to leave because she spoke for me and got our father to find me a mentor in another town. I did not see her again after I left.” 

He sat up straighter when Eleanor stepped out of the changing room, turning to see what she'd picked out. While he was nitpicky about his own clothing, quick to find faults and the ways modern clothes would cling and hang awkwardly on his body, he really never had much to say about other people’s outfits. Good and bad were simple enough, even when Eleanor’s comments on his own outfit choices had expanded his vocabulary on that front to include tacky and ridiculous. She didn’t look tacky or ridiculous, though, which left him with a second of the mental gymnastics that was trying to pick a response, landing on the limited answer of: “You look fine, it looks good on you. Do you think silver, or gold for the jewelry?”

He stood at her request, passing her a glass of the champagne to free up his hands before looking over the jewelry rack. He picked out a few options before returning to her, chains dangling from his fingers as he held them up for her to inspect. “Off-the-shoulder means necklaces instead of bracelets, right? These could go with it.”

[dearestdarkling]

The humor feels misplaced, as if plucked out of a different timeline and dropped into this one through Morgan's sheer force of will. Misplaced, but not unwelcome. Not yet. She can appreciate some spine, especially if the alternative's something tear-stained or sentimental in that sticky, grubby way compassion can get. "Well, if you ever change your mind, I've got some fangs I can lend out for the occasion," she offers, without warmth. Being staked by another vampire would be a fitting loophole out of her contract.

Ah, so the answer's yes. Has to be. Well, good for her! "Big news. Anytime a dry spell's broken, a baby vampire sprouts their first wings, or whatever. Here's to Brad," she holds up her martini glass in a toast, wry amusement dancing behind her eyes. "Thanks for having held it down for so long, champ."

Mrs. Laure and Kiri Stephens. Neither name strikes a cord. Sounds like Morgan's swinging to her, but obviously that can't be right since there's no Brad around to finish out that lovely quadrangle. Shame. The mention of a favor does stoke her curiosity, though, as does the stench of diplomacy. "Yeah? What kind of favor?"

Then Morgan makes her laugh, something strange and sardonic. "Just curious. Tragically, my type tends towards those with no pulse. Hopefully you won't join the ranks by the end of the night."

Easy for a vampire to say. She wonders what it would feel like to have that sort of strength at your fingertips, to take tenderness for granted. Goodness knows Morgan would have a lot easier time moving arcade furniture around if she were a vampire. But she'd have a hell of a lot harder time with invisible things that mattered.

That, and sunlight.

She tried having revenge. Had the final girl circuit and all. It wasn't everything it was cracked up to be, and as it turned out, there was a bigger shark waiting in the water for the moment her own blood was spilled.

"Well, the high ground doesn't help me get things off shelves, so there are some drawbacks."

Does Eleanor deserve the humor? Doesn't she? Morgan's not going to change who she is for these people. It's worked for 46 years -- so it'll have to work for however many she's got left in her. The vampire's needling is admittedly kind of funny. Clever wordplay, at the least. But the woman has enough sense in her not to give up the entire game here, not after all the trouble they went through compelling her before arrival.

"I'm a red blooded woman whose heart still beats," she shrugs, not denying but not confirming Eleanor's suspicions. Morgan's aforementioned heart, however, remains steady and calm when she thinks of the one who usually gets that blood pumping. No indication of her true feelings to be found. "But I'm here tonight as a guest of Mrs. Laure and Kiri Stephens. Doing them a favor in kind, for getting me in the door." She pauses, then returns Eleanor's smile with every ounce of sarcasm she can muster.

"Why, was that your way of asking if I'm available?"

[dearestdarkling]

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly at Dan. "Let him come and defend our honor when he does. Right, Aria?"

That's the trap of socializing: makes it too easy to forget oneself. She's pleasantly surprised by how effortless the company feels—Aria and her sharp edges, Dan and his breezy humor—it's nearly enough to forget the rest of it. But the reminders are all still there, tucked behind the cheek and the casual sway of conversation. Bought in on a whim. Solid leadership. Spoken like a man with choices. Even Aria, still basking in the afterglow of her recent success, exists on a different plane than her. They both do. It's why she hardly ever bothers; other people are reference points and she'd rather not have to map out the dimensions of her cage.

There's no room left in her to take things personally anymore, at least. It's just another barrier of entry she puts up between them without thinking about it. Eleanor smiles wryly around another puff of smoke. "You'll get familiar quickly. Kali's a fabulous hostess that way. I'm sure you'll get to know her over tea. Keep an eye out for an invitation." And the strings attached to it, though this part she leaves out. Not. Her. Fucking. Problem.

The conversation pivots to Aria's—dog? She does a double take as Dan finishes the rest of his sentence. Makes a face, something split between disgust and alarm as she turns to Aria. "... Kinda behind on my lore here, but sweetheart... won't one bite literally kill you?" She can respect a hearty death wish. Is that what's going on here? "And how do you deal with the smell?" Another drag of her cigarette. "Let me guess: you watched Coppola's Dracula when you were, like, twelve and kept replaying that one Lucy scene in the dark, so now you have a whole thing about it. Or was it Ginger Snaps that did it?"

@photoaria

Aria takes Daniel's offer of another cigarette, and hums around it as it's lit. Inhale, exhale away from the group of them, and she takes them in now - more fully. Eleanor carries herself much like the Reid or Birdie had, and Daniel seems to have a weight to him she can't quite put her finger on. There's the urge there to capture it, show the world the lines etched into perfect vampiric skin.

"Sounds like there's stories there." She flicks the ash to the ground, leaning back a little, one arm over the other. Her gaze flicks between the two of them. "But I doubt I'm anything special other than a hungry bitch with a penchant for having fun."

Fun, in this case..

"Besides, I don't know much about the clan yet. I think I'm meeting with Kali again later."

@dannyriv

[dearestdarkling]

Returning to the bar. How novel. The conversation with Morgan had soured her mood. It was a dirty fucking move, pulling out that photograph. Of course she'd had one. Nostalgia freaks always had photos for every pointless occasion, hoarding all their precious memories like they might bring meaning to their insipid little lives—and no one wielded the power of the past more effectively than Morgan Moss.

So she was back at the bar, a slow simmer in red velvet, ready to trade in martinis for straight shots of vodka while the photograph smoldered outside somewhere underneath the butt of her cigarette. Eleanor downed a shot like it was water, oblivious to her surroundings, when someone cleared their throat. She glanced past her shoulder, one elbow still draped on the edge of the bar, and made quick work of the stranger. Human. Gorgeous. World's most perfect eyebrows. Nervous.

She looked at her longer than she need have, appraising, perhaps doing little to dispel the nerves before finally granting a faint lift of her brows. "Would you take a third option? Sobriety feels like a punishment and everything here's top shelf." A pulse. Gotta love humans and their tendency to walk circles around the point. "What if I told you that not only do I not have a pulse, but that's actually my trauma furniture you're dunking on. I'm the art curator for this event; these are my installations. They all represent my dead brother and his final moments on earth. Any other comments?" She let the discomfort sit for a moment, eyes searing into hers, then broke out into a half-smile and turned back to the bartender, beckoning them over. "Bring us some vodka shots, whatever's most expensive. For me and... I didn't catch your name."

WHO: @dearestdarkling WHERE: supernatural conclave & gala.

Romy had been loitering near the bar like a socially anxious gargoyle for what felt like hours, clutching her champagne flute like it doubled as a security pass. Her heels were already plotting mutiny, and the crab puffs had started to taste like existential despair. She was half a sip away from pretending to text no one when someone slid into the space beside her, effortless and elegant in that I didn’t trip even once tonight kind of way. Romy’s eyes flicked sideways, taking her in —beautiful dress, cooler expression. One of those people who looked like she belonged here, unlike Romy, who still felt like a decently dressed monkey trying not to touch anything breakable.

She cleared her throat. “So, honest question,” she said, offering a sidelong smile and raising her glass, “—are we drinking because this feels like a murder mystery party and we’re just waiting for someone to scream? Or are you one of those terrifyingly composed people who actually likes these things?” A pause, then, sheepishly: “Sorry. I’ve hit my quota for staring at art that looks like trauma turned into expensive furniture. I needed someone with a pulse to talk to.”

[dearestdarkling]

He was a good liar, her darling bartender. He spoke with enough calm conviction that she'd barely detected the shifts in his body language, all those subtle hints to the contrary that were woven into the rhythm of his heart beat. The Heart Won't Lie—wouldn't it be funny if Reba McEntire was a vampire? It wouldn't surprise her. Nothing much did anymore. "Uh huh. Listen, lie to yourself all you want, but do it on your own time, yeah?" Her words, though quiet, had picked up a sudden edge, as if they were being run across a serrated blade. "I deal with enough delusion at work." That was the good thing about her witches; grind someone far down enough and nothing dishonest can sprout from what's left.

Gael. Eleanor second guessed herself for a moment; honestly, he could've been describing a lot of people, including her own father—but, so what? Best case scenario she was sending a witch with a grudge straight into the lion's den, ready to take aim at the biggest pest in her life. Worst case, she was wrong and he'd either be ripped apart for her misjudgment or thrown into the cells under No Man's Land. The spot beneath her collarbone pulsed with a phantom pain. Oh, well. He'd look pretty in a cage. Might teach him a thing or two about fraternizing with vampires.

Eleanor lifted her gaze to meet theirs. "There's a fight club in town you might find interesting," she offered vaguely. "Just know you're dealing in blood now, sweetheart. So you better be ready to draw some."

“Never,” He lied easily. He wasn’t going to recount the terrifying night when he had gone overboard, when he’d had to press a shocking spell against his lover’s waist to force him back to his senses. That was the night that prompted a lot of changes, starting with giving basic information on how to use the various salves and potions in his bag in the event that he passed out and his lover was left to care for him alone, and ending with the letting go of his vegetarianism for the sake of getting more iron in his diet. “He had quite a lot of control.” 

He finished off his glass, swirling the ice that remained at the bottom as he recalled the night of the hurricane. ���He was white. Blonde, with a pointed face. Prominent cheekbones. I didn’t get a look at him standing, but he seemed to be around... 180, 185 centimeters?” He leaned forwards on the bar, watching her face closely. “Why? Does he sound familiar?”

[dearestdarkling]

Quin + Rain in Soho, The Mountain Goats

[dearestdarkling]

When she saw the bartender pulling out a bottle to fix themselves a drink, Eleanor snapped the notebook shut and settled into her seat. She was in for a tale, it seemed. She didn't mind; her brain was due for a break and she quite liked the sound of their voice. It reminded her of her mother's stack of old Hollywood movies. Joan Crawford could've learned a thing or two from them.

And quite the tale it was. Romance had been the last thing on her mind in the last year and the potential for matchups across different species she especially hadn't spared a thought for. Vampires and witches, swapping spit and trading in blood. How... CW of them. An interjection, skepticism coloring her tone, "And he never lost control, drinking your blood? Never went overboard?" A vampire who regularly fed on witch blood? Can't have been the most stable personality. Hard to imagine the pair coexisting together. Maybe she was projecting.

Eleanor poured herself another generous serving of gin as the bartender's story came to a close, nails tapping absently against the highball while she mused on his situation. For reasons that had nothing to do with altruism, she found herself interested in filling in some of the blanks in his story. Confirmation bias be damned, she often found there were two people in her life she could trace most of her problems back to—maybe it was this stranger's lucky night. "My condolences on your loss," she offered, without really meaning it. "Anything else you can remember about the vampire from the hurricane? Appearance wise?"

“I’m well aware of the restraint it takes not to simply kill me for my blood. The man had hired muscle in the car, and seemed to have some sort of scale for whether or not killing someone would have consequences.” Jaya reached below the bar for a glass, mixing something for themself as they spoke. Unprofessional, probably, but they owned the place, and it wasn’t like anyone was going to be able to stop them. “If I knew more about the different structures the vampires of this town cling to, I’d be able to tell who he was. As far as I know, all of the clans could be run like a mafia movie trope. Or perhaps he was a rich independent who happened upon me.”

He leaned back onto the bar, sipping his drink as she asked about the more obvious scars, prompting him to turn his head to show them a little more clearly. “My late love had restraint, too. I’d been neglecting wearing my verbena charms as much those days, and hadn’t realized he was a vampire until we were exclusive for over a month. When I heard that he’d brought another man back to his apartment, I jumped right to conclusions and assumed he was cheating.”  

“By the time I’d reached his door, I had already riled myself up and decided which vase I’d have the best luck throwing across his living room, only to walk in on him draining some poor soul who had already departed this world.” Jaya had adopted the tone of someone sharing a good bit of gossip, brushing over the mention of his late love killing someone. “I suppose I was so caught up in the relief that he wasn’t having an affair, I barely even cared he was a vampire. It was a few more weeks before I proposed the idea of him drinking some of my blood.”

He set down his drink, looking up at the stranger. "Part of why I'm so interested in finding the vampire who I encountered in the hurricane. He took something very precious to me, something I had to remember my love by."

[dearestdarkling]

She didn't match the smile, but gave something like a soundless laugh. Certifiable though she may very well be, at least the woman owned it. She could appreciate her quick thinking too; in the time they'd taken to board up the broken window under her command, most of the room had cleared out except for themselves and a few stragglers watching on unhelpfully. Death to chivalry.

Eleanor was wringing rainwater out of her hair when the other woman spoke up again. This time it was something of an admonishment, sincere yet sharp. She raised a cool brow. The last thing she would've expected from the woman who'd been relishing in the chaos of their surroundings mere moments ago was a dig at her humanity. When did this turn into an afterschool special?

"What's your name?" she asked. And without waiting for an answer, continued, tone brisk, "You seem smart. Rational. So I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that we're nothing short of monsters. We kill for a living. There's a room full of innocent people downstairs for us to gorge on when we get peckish. What about that screams humanity to you?

As soon as the board was secure, Ha-Jeong was in motion again. The initial board would hold but reinforcements would eventually be necessary.

And the youngling was right. They were surrounded by ‘dickless’ masses. The job would not get done if it wasn’t one of them.

Ha-Jeong had been part of Reardon for little over a half century and she was endlessly disappointed by the majority of its recruits. For every Kali there were 25 less conscientious souls. At least the majority could not longer waste the air needed to fuel their lungs.

As she made eye contact with the girl who had proven herself on the better side of the Reardon roster, she couldn’t help but give a slight up turn of her lip, “You are a little but I shouldn’t blame you.”

Ha-Jeong went to go about completing her task when she doubled back, the woman would never hear it but she wanted to say it, “You are decent. If you intend to exist as an undead of any consequence, mastering the humanity helps.”

And she turned to start collecting boards.

[dearestdarkling]

When I leave. Right, that again. He spoke of it so often that its meaning had eroded. She didn't doubt he meant it (Primus/Marcus could speak to that, poor bastard) yet he never seemed too pressed about a timeline either. It was just as well; the idea of him leaving irritated her. That he had the option to, for starters. That he could simply wipe his hands clean of this place, and of her, after she'd spent the better part of a year cleaning up his messes. It was just her luck— to have finally gotten the measure of someone in this hellish new existence, enough to be at ease with their many eccentricities—and it was someone who kept a packed bag in their car at all times and one foot on the gas pedal. Whatever. Knowing him, he might not even make it that far; probably blow up his car two miles outside of town, smoking at a gas station. She'd welcome him back with a fresh pack of cigarettes and let him rant about the many flaws of modern infrastructure or whatever else he chose to blame for his failings. It'd be like he never left. "Sure. I'll tell everyone you went back home. To France."

Eleanor nodded at his acknowledgment. The spills, when she became aware of them, felt like tiny fractures in the back of her mind. Fault lines in a dam that kept everything sealed up. It was strange, knowing there were mechanisms in place to keep her impervious to the weight of grief. Stranger still to see it in action— to recall the sound of her brother's laugh, the weary lines of her mother's face, the twin caskets being lowered into the ground, their final goodbye—to speak of loss and feel nothing but a far off echo of something mournful. Quin was good company in that regard. He never made a fuss about those things. Never pushed. "Bygones. Wherever he is now has to be better than this," she said dispassionately. Eleanor thought back to their first conversation. "You had... nine siblings, right? Lot of numbers to compete with there. Did you like any of them?"

She looked back over at his prompting and brightened at the sight of him. "Perfect. You're a knockout. Eat your heart out, Patrick Bateman," and knowing full well he wouldn't remember the reference, she swept past him to where the dress she'd chosen was hung up, snatched it off the hanger, and breezed over to the changing room with a half-nod in the direction of the champagne bottle now that he'd finalized his outfit. She emerged a few minutes later, picking at one of the shoulders of the red dress and eyeing it critically in the mirror. "This has to be the most expensive thing I've ever worn. It looks fine, yeah? Think it needs anything? There was some jewelry near the ties."

Quin rolled up the possum tie, stashing it in his pocket before securing the black one around his neck. Much better for a gala, even if it did not make him smile as much.

“I do not do much with favors. Turn a blind eye when I leave, and we will be even.” When. Still said with a certainty of a man who had only arrived in town last week, even after spending more time here than he had in any of his other towns. Eight years wasn’t much to his lifespan, but it was a lot of time to spend in one place. Eleanor’s favor owed was one of the many little things he held onto that made it feel easier to stay, knowing that he could have someone who might point pursuers in the wrong direction if he needed to leave. He couldn’t even think of another use for the favor, not really. Another way to get her to come out on a shopping trip like this, maybe?

He watched her reflection in the mirror instead of turning as she spoke. She was speaking quicker than normal, but not so quick that it felt like she was trying to push them past him, more that she was saying just enough to get what needed to be said, without wanting to linger. A better response than he expected to a thoughtless question like the one he'd asked. If someone had asked him about his own family so soon after his turning, they’d have become his next meal, and that was without his humanity being dulled as hers was. 

Her story filled in some blanks he’d had in his mind, things that hadn’t been covered in the file that he had read out of uncharacteristic curiosity. He wasn’t one for empty platitudes, and she wasn’t one to accept them. Hard to look for a bright side when he hadn’t seen the sun in over a thousand years, and he didn't want to get smacked over stumbling into the verbal equivalent of sticking his fingers in an open wound. He offered a weak nod to a shared experience, instead. “Siblings can be like that. Shining so much that you are in the dark when it ends.”

He turned from the mirror, smoothing the blazer down and running a hand through his hair. “Good?”