#tig001

[valentinstjohn]

Valentin was not a great man, nor did he even consider himself to be a rather notable one, but he was, if anything, not constrained to the usual passage of time and so what would be but a moment for him might feel like much longer to anyone else. In due time though, an introduction came from the man who approached him. A squire was the claim and it took only for a moment for Valentin to register the untruths that came so readily from the young man's mouth. He did not particularly care to being lied to but he also didn't care too much for the truth, all earth roaming beings with cognizance and the intelligence to lie tended to do so even for the most minute reasons, so the why didn't matter to much to him at all either. The most important part and the reasons he did anything at all were based on whether or not it would be fruitful for him.

The offered item now held before him drew his gaze away from the squire. Pale blue eyes scrutinized it carefully from his vantage point, not once giving way any emotion or indication of interest but he did ask, "What do you want?" He did recognize the feather, he knew what creature it originated from. He could smell it. "Or do you offer it to me freely as a gift?"

Ah. The wait. It was far from unfamiliar; Tig had been waiting on men grander than him since... well, always. A miller's son was, after all, not terribly grand. And a poorborn squire? Even less so, it had seemed. A pauper knight? That had raised an eyebrow, perhaps two. But, by then, he'd been well-practiced enough to amuse himself as the time stretched on. He'd hardly been bothered by the casual disregard of monied, titled, landed types by the day he rode out from the keep on his knighted own, at last. They always had terribly interesting things to look at. Glorious libraries and tapestries woven full of stories, and so forth.

Unfortunately, tonight, the most readily available distraction was shrieking as that host of starving rats gnawed out his guts. And, he was in something of a rush, besides. Always, now, fighting the sliding sands of that hunger. A cold prickle of sweat found his clenched palms and his guts twisted, knotted, ached like they might fray thin enough to snap. Then, the vampire deigned to reply.

And Tig's dead heart sank. If it could.

Before lurching back, very nearly, to life. "Cian ul Cavann. A squire of Withermore." The lies tumbled out of him, eager to be believed. "I don't intend to waste your time," he insisted, and that much was true. Tucking his long fingers up into his sleeve, Tig drew out... a feather. The very same reddish-blonde as his own hair, soft-edged, barred in dark grey. Just a downy little thing, easily concealed from prying eyes in the cup of his palm as he held it over for St. John to - recognize, hopefully. Sluagh parts were as rare as the beasts themselves, and the rare tended to have a certain value to the curious, didn't they? And every tale of Valentin St. John did tell of his curiosity, his scholarly pursuits, the boundaries he was prepared to transgress. But if he didn't know a sluagh when he saw bits of one... well, what use could he be, to Tig's troubles? Less than he'd been hoping, certainly. "I can fetch you more. And other... elements, perhaps. If we're able to come to an agreement." A rather big, unlikely if.

[atlasholdstheheavens-blog]

where: who knows?

who: Tig ( @antigoneawake  )

Some evenings, Atlas let himself get lost to the streets. Not like that, but... but it was just so freeing, getting on his skateboard and going wherever he wanted. The breeze would blow through his hair, the cold air would nip at his cheeks, and he didn’t have to worry about a thing. 

Sure, he’d get a weird look or two from a witch or wizard if he skated through Hogsmeade (which he did, often) - but that was their problem, not his.

On one such night, when he really wasn’t expecting to bump into any other people - it was late, the moon was high, the crickets were chirping - he did, in fact, cross paths with someone. He didn’t recognise her, but as she got closer, he realised that she was skating, too - though she was on rollerskates as opposed to his skateboard. He paused on his board when she got close enough, smiling at her when she did the same. 

“Don’t usually run into anyone on this route, at this time,” he said conversationally. 

- ๑ -

[valentinstjohn]

The atmosphere of Scourge House wasn't entirely to his liking, it was, at times, quite loud but it was also someplace he found himself enjoying his time and was capable of ignoring most of the diverting sounds to be able to focus on whatever work or performance was on display. A lot of it was surprising even for him, a level of unique ingenuity that offered the vampire some ideas for his own personal experiments, wanting to try his hand at recreating them and so often would take notes on his observations. Despite his outward busy appearance, scrawling neat but gibberish looking notes -- appearing to be gibberish for as ever he wrote in his own secret cypher of his own making -- someone still deigned it appropriate to approach him.

Valentin did not pause his writing, nor did he look up at the nervous sounding individual, it would appear almost as if Valentin had either not heard a word the man had said or was actively choosing to ignore his words and the awkward bow of his greeting. The reality being that Valentin heard and saw everything and simply chose to respond and react at his own leisure and so it would be a few moments of silence from him, still writing down the train of thought before he finally, still writing, spoke up, "I don't take proposals from strangers," his pen tip continued to squeak against the paper of his notebook, ink blood red and it was only now that the pen tip had run dry did the vampire look up at the being who had approached. Quick was the survey of his pale blue eyes, taking in all the little details he needed to based off the other's appearance and the way he carried himself, the line of his shoulders and the way his expression sat. "Introduce yourself," Valentin stated flatly.

He was used to this, people finding him out, seeking his aid for one reason or another, usually something boring and it was the boring ones who usually ended up dead. The ones who had something actually interesting to the vampire could be put to use. He'd gotten fairly good over the centuries at determining at a glance which ones were boring and which ones were useful. Valentin reclined more comfortably in his seat, not blinking, not breathing, simple mortal actions he had long since abandoned.

Of all the godsless places Tig had heard or read of, Scourge House was, perhaps, the fairest in terms of advertising; lived up to its name, certainly. Best he didn't stay long, for so very many reasons. First among them being the thick coat of blood on the air. Fresh and old alike - it made little difference to the cursed thing in him. The wails and whimpers that were welling up as the "show" went on didn't help. His stomach churned; so did his monster's. After hours of being well-satisfied by a breakfast caught wild in the woods, it was itching at the back of his skull again, raising gooseflesh. Or sluaghflesh, as the case may be.

Just a little longer, though. It could wait. It would have to; he may, at last, have found who he was looking for. If this vampire, like his entertainment of choice, was everything Tig had been promised.

Promised by rumours caught in the back-alleys and undead-dens of Destarin, yes, but. Desperate as he was, it'd do, as leads went. Anything would.

"Ah - Valentin St. John? I believe?" Tig began, with the most decorum he could manage. And a bow, somewhat belated, perhaps too slight. From onstage, a wail, and the frenzied skittering of rats. Hundreds of them. Standing stiffly at the alchemist's table, back to all that, he licked his lips and started again. "I'm very sorry to intrude upon your - peace. But I was hoping you and I could... discuss some business. That we might have. To mutual benefit. If you would be pleased to hear such a proposal." Is that what it was? More like begging, but. A vampire out to unfetter his kind from their awful appetites seemed, perhaps, the type to appreciate a veneer of normalcy. Two men talking business, rather than two monsters talking questionable alchemy.

@valentinstjohn