taxonomites | 061 ± [visual / location: the black friar] done with all the circlin' round

"Are we really talking about a lighthouse?" pipes up one of the two newest newcomers, in German and ostensibly to his brother, except that there are five or six people between Johannes and Horst. So Johannes leans back on the bar by his elbows, squints at the ceiling, and ends up asking the whole room this. The whole German-speaking room, anyway. "Why?"

His shirtcollar is undone and reveals a bright red flush that travels down from the tips of his cheekbones straight down to his collarbone, along with a cotton bandage taped to his neck. If that wasn't bad enough, he frowns and adds, "Leuchttürme. Light-houses. We're talking about a lighthouse. Horst. You dragged me here to listen to some fellow with train tracks stapled into his head talk about lighthouses."

Occam's razor seems to point to the array of empty shot glasses behind him.

Edited 2013-03-05 10:21 (UTC)

A deep voice speaking flawless German answers Johannes Cabal's oh-so-tactful entrance into the conversation.

"Herr Cabal, there are several things it would behoove a new arrival to learn about this city. In the first, the 'fellow with the train tracks' whom you mention has seen considerably more of this city's threats and history than you. In the second, they are not train tracks. In the third, he is a scientist and his observations about this lighthouse may well be valuable.

"In the fourth, you and your unfortunate brother are hardly the only people in this city to speak Deutsch."

Long leans slightly forward at his table, amber eyes fixed on Johannes with what qualifies, for Long, as actual distaste.

The reasons for this distaste are three-fold: he recalls a certain story related under a starry medieval sky; he is protective of his friend Glitch; and, of course, he is in a generally poor mood due to his recent de-dragoning, and Johannes has just managed to cross it.

Long sniffs, primly, and turns his gaze upon Glitch. "You believe this lighthouse is significant, then?" he asks, returning to English.

Edited 2013-03-05 10:36 (UTC)

"Aren't they?" says Johannes, not especially chastened (nor shushed, for that matter). He stares curiously at Glitch's head with unfocused eyes. "Staples? A grille? Is there an engine in there?" The vodka is only partly to blame for his behavior--much as his mortified hungover self is bound to regret this tomorrow, he likely wouldn't have set upon getting quite so plastered if he took Taxon seriously at all. As far as he's concerned, he's at a tea party with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare and being asked to hold hands and sit in a circle and listen to the White Rabbit talk about lighthouses.

Horst wants him to socialize? Fine. He'll socialize.

And then there's the vodka. "Everyone here is English," he declares, tilting his tipsy blonde head back. "Or American. It's always English. It's always bloody English. Will I ever be rid of the bloody English?"

Edited 2013-03-05 10:48 (UTC)

Long snorts, an impressive sound that might bring to mind the louder version of it produced by his dragony self for those who heard such.

"I am assuredly not English," he points out. Really. The English. Such a young people. He ought be insulted. But then, the fellow is quite clearly drunk. It is folly itself to let one be aggravated by a sot. That is likely in a sutra somewhere. Or is the Book of Proverbs?

"And you, sir, are drunk," Long contents himself with that as a 'last word', or, at least, nobly intends to leave it there.

For once in his time in Taxon, this overall wonderful city what has afforded him so many liberties and freedoms as to boggle the mind of the servant he once was, Bagoas is ever so pleased to have brought his tablet along for the purposes of recording the meeting (and this bit in particular).

The translation feature is ever so handy, or so he has come to see it.

This is why, in the interest of diplomacy, he slips closer while Long rebuffs the strange statement. Foreigners, of course, but that is all he can glean from the conversation.

Pacifying drunkards should be on his resume. His ability not to be upset on Glitch's behalf despite the insults, well, maybe that as well.

"Sir?" He greets him in softly lilting English through no fault of his own, but rather as per a certain trope the aliens saw fit to employ in his case. "Please. I am Bagoas of Susa, of the Persian Empire. May I be of service? At least," he adds with carefully applied wry amusement. "One would hardly view me as English."

Johannes peers at the--man? Woman? No, woman. No, man. Transvestite, maybe--ah, to the Devil with it, he clearly hasn't had quite enough to drink. He reaches to pour himself another.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says without particular rancor, but in English, at least. "The Persian Empire. Scheisse, I don't see why not. Boy. Pour me a--a--" It takes him some thinking to come up with a drink he hasn't had yet, whether or not this was what Bagoas meant by 'of service' "--gin and tonic, would you?"

Not so far down in the reaches of his mind he knows he's just digging himself deeper. So he takes up his shovel again with stubborn ferocity and drums his fingers on the bar, tilting his shot glass back to retrieve the remaining few drops of vodka.

Bagoas gives a polite smile and catches the eye of the barkeep, who complies with the air of a man who sees this sort of thing happen every night of every week and every year. Bagoas doesn't particularly sympathize, though he's never found much fault with the so-called Extras. Especially not now that they seem at least halfway intelligent, and less...what's that word again? Auto-matic.

He slides the finished drink across the polished, grained wood, and on second thought does the same with a nearby bowl of salted pretzels.

"There's no one else here from my home," he remarks gently, giving the man a surreptitious glance from top to bottom. "Where are you from, if not..." How to extract a land from 'English', nonsensical word for a language that it is. Eng? Englia? No. Better not try.

"If not the Americas?"

Another set of fingers interposes itself between Johannes's outstretched hand and the drink Bagoas just slid his way, lifting the glass away smoothly like a mother deftly plucking dangerous cutlery out of the hands of her child. "Gin tonic?" he says in suspiciously controlled-sounding German, holding the glass up to the barlight briefly. "You've branched out."

His regard, and indeed his beatific smile, are reserved entirely for Bagoas of Susa, however; Johannes gets only an eyeful of the space between Horst's shoulders.

"Johannes and I hail from Bavaria," he answers the question smoothly, as though he'd been standing in just that spot a moment ago to be the recipient of Bagoas's question as well as the proffered drink. His English is markedly less accented than his brother's, at present. "I do beg your pardon -- my brother is recently arrived, and still struggling a bit to recover his good spirits. I hope he hasn't given too much offense."

Horst inclines his head politely in a brief bow. Bagoas has the benefit, as several of Horst's other recent acquaintances didn't, of meeting him recently fed: as a result, his complexion has a warm peachiness to it at the moment, and the only hints of his vampiric constitution are his cool hands (notably not offered for a handshake) and his slightly pronounced eye teeth. "I'm Horst Cabal, and this is my brother Johannes. We're both delighted to meet you." He takes a slow sip of the gin tonic, eyes glittering with approval over the top of his glass for the very lovely young man in front of him with such keen diplomatic instincts. He's older than he looks on first appearance, Horst notices: well, they have that in common. "It must be terrible to be so alone in the world."

Bagoas, to his credit, only startles very slightly when suddenly finding himself face to face with another stranger. Horst Cabal is not the first vampire Bagoas has dealt with and more than readily befriended, and he certainly won't be the last. However, he is by far of the, how to put it, most gregarious sort. Where Raziel was to the point and Josef (dear Iosef) will talk at length with charm and wit within arm's length, Horst's particulars strike him as decidedly different.

Perhaps it is for being a brother, and, Bagoas surmises by the way the man stands and cants his head and so readily stakes claim to his brother's poison of choice: an older brother, by blood or virtue of his upbringing. He remembers what it was like, to be an older brother, and with some slight embarrassment inclines his head in a bow of mutual greeting. Like Horst, he doesn't offer his hands, but rather lets them rest at his thighs, then his sides.

"If you'll allow me to be blunt: you are both faring markedly better than some did on arrival, myself included." He looks up, favouring the delightfully courteous man with a smile that's a touch warmer than merely polite. "However, I've since found many friends. I am delighted to make your acquaintance as well."

He's lost some as well, but one hardly speaks of such things with so recent an acquaintance.

Horst is hardly the only person in the world who uses charm to get his way. Here is another practitioner, this Bagoas of Susa, his smile just flirtatious enough to be ingratiating while still staying safely on this side of deniability. They're playing a game already, the two of them, and Horst suspects they share the same intended endpoint: a resolution to this conflict, and a chance to sound each other out in a broader sense, assess possible threats and how to deal with them. Here, finally, he may be on more comfortable territory than he has been with some of the others. He hopes.

There's just one problem. One problem sitting behind him, stinking drunk. Well, at least that particular problem isn't a new one.

"It's no surprise that someone with such charming manners would have no difficulty in making friends," he says, holding the gin tonic in his hand rather than set it down where his brother might get to it. "I regret to say I've found my own manners not entirely equal to the task in some cases." His gaze flickers around the room ever-so-briefly, where perhaps it settles on Nuada Silverlance or Jason Blood, each keeping largely to themselves. "Social skills," he says to Bagoas in an intimate way that implies a joking double-entendre, "are an area in which I'm unaccustomed to complaint. It does bruise a man's ego."

Horst studies his conversational partner a bit, finding much to admire in his bright clothing and glittering adornments, and the high sheen of his well-tended hair. He's more than a bit jealous: his own wardrobe, while unquestionably with the modern times thanks to some help on the matter, is also considerably more muted in color, only as vivid as Mr. Holmes agreed might be appropriate. The purple suit and red waistcoat were a bit flashy, but at this moment he misses them: a certain amount of flash has always suited Horst Cabal, and while his cream-white button-down, heather green waistcoat and dark gray trousers don't do him any harm, neither do they really bring anything of his personality to the table the way the purple suit did. Men's fashions of the future have regrettably not strayed far from their forebears of Horst's time.

Horst would not be wrong in his assessment of potential motives for Bagoas' effortless charm. One does not survive the Royal Household of ancient Persia without a touch of cunning and other skills to match. He listens, following the line of the tall man's gaze in subtle flicks of his own: Jason Blood, who still to this day unsettles him for no apparent reason other than a blatant disrespect for the unwritten rules of conversation, and one of the newcomers, whose acquaintance he would rather not make at all (intriguing and otherworldly as he may well be). Perhaps with some gentle nudging, he might find out what dealings Horst has entered into with them both. Perhaps not. It is a matter of the right time and place, and this is neither.

So instead he slits his eyes towards Horst, chuckling softly at his remark on social skills, why yes indeed it is a treacherous game, and placing one hand on the polished counter, manoeuvres himself onto the bar stool. While he knows for a fact his stature is an advantage when speaking to men (for it is a man's preference to be superior, and any physical aspect that furthers that end gives them a sense of it), he is not above using proximity as a means to his own end. He crosses his ankles neatly, angling his upper body towards Horst; everything he does, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, has only one purpose: to be as pleasing to the eye as is humanly possible.

One delicate, long-fingered hand lifts to shield his mouth from anyone but his newfound ally. On closer inspection, it is painted, with golden nails to match. "And what does a discerning gentleman, so well acquainted with the games men play, make of such a motley crowd?"

Bagoas's move to seat himself has its own motives -- some of them clear, some of them a bit more reflective of Bagoas's own mindset in a way that Horst might not fully relate to -- but it also serves to settle them, and their conversation, into the space. Accordingly, Horst leans to rest one forearm against the bartop, which has the added effect of closing the distance between himself and Bagoas into something more familiar: familiar enough, at least, for the semblance of a private conversation.

Horst looks skyward, putting two fingers of his free hand against his lower lip in an obvious show of thought. When he looks back, it's with an eyebrow slightly raised. "Such a gentleman," he says with a touch of the theatrical third-person, "might observe, by and by, that only someone quite foolish or insecure risks making the wrong sort of gossip with strangers without knowing which way the wind blows among them. Such a man might instead offer only pleasant, benign observations in answer to your question: the helpfulness of our host, the relaxing nature of the venue. Things calculated not to cause too much scandal if confessed to the wrong person. Things hardly discerning whatsoever. And this gentleman might find you least safe of all, Bagoas of Susa," he says with a smile that is all approval. "The sharpest knives know ways to cut painlessly."

He allows a brief pause, as though he hadn't already decided what opinions to offer. "But often a discerning gentleman is not without hope of making a friend, either, nor wishes to be thought of as unforthcoming -- or worse, hostile." He spares a glance upward and back, to indicate the place over Horst's shoulder, where Johannes sits behind him. "And so the discerning gentleman, wishing to make a gesture of good faith, might venture a further observation. These people -- if they are what they seem, and not an elaborate ruse designed to gull my brother and I -- have no sense of a community among them. No structure. They don't expect to gain anything by working together; most are only here for fear of missing out on some advantage the others share. See how many people here sit apart. It seems unstable."

He looks down into his drink, then back up. "A gentleman, ever thoughtful of making bad conversation, might then wonder what his canny companion makes of such -- " He pauses again, with a little laugh to himself. "Well, you couldn't call it seditious talk. The opposite, I suppose. Such anti-seditious talk."

Tipsy and morose, Johannes only half-follows the track of Horst and Bagoas's conversation in English. None of this is going how he would have liked. It hadn't occurred to him that anyone in this room aside from himself and his brother would speak enough German to take offense: Englishmen never do. Unfortunately, his ability to extricate himself from his own social mistakes is even more lacking than his ability not to make them, so he sticks his chin in the air in the lofty way of a person with not a single care in the world. To the Devil with Horst, and the railroad man, and the Chinaman, and all of them. They will not see him embarrassed.

(He is going to have quite a few regrets.)

The fact that someone else is now talking to Bagoas and he isn't any more doesn't displease him much--he dislikes gatherings, he dislikes meeting people, and though he harbors nothing against Bagoas of Susa per se, any excuse not to have to put together new small-talk is a good enough excuse for him. Lord in Heaven, will he ever be done with being confined with others and forced to make conversation? The fact that the someone else is his brother Horst is more of the problem at hand.

While Horst and Bagoas chat, Johannes's eyes flicker between them, baleful and reddish from the liquor. Horst isn't paying attention to him--in fact, Horst is making a point of paying no attention to him whatsoever--so he takes the opportunity to reach behind the counter and pour himself a glass of Scotch whisky, bartender be damned. His fingers are shaky, though, and while when he inevitably drops the bottle it's not entirely on purpose, he doesn't make much of an effort to go for it.

The liquid spills across the bar, spattering Johannes's sleeves and dumping half its contents straight into Horst's lap. It occurs to him that his side of the bar has just gotten a great deal wetter; with a mild oath he stands up and relocates himself to the other side of Bagoas while the Extra bartender tries to mop up the spill.

He drops himself into the seat next to Bagoas's again. The look he's fixed Bagoas with is decidedly unfriendly and in no way resembles gentlemanly interest; in fact, he looks much less positively disposed towards Bagoas of Susa than he did a moment ago. He does not look at Horst. "I'm very sorry about that," he slurs in English with a sip of his new drink. "I'm sure you know how it is. So clumsy sometimes."

Edited 2013-03-08 23:01 (UTC)

Listening to Horst's pleasant voice, Bagoas (the reservedly amiable, enigmatic courtier that he is emulating at present) can't help but marvel not only at the length with which Horst Cabal speaks, but the insights he lays out in the air between them. At last, thinks Bagoas, there is someone here who truly speaks my tongue. Finally, someone who seems to hold an intimate understanding of how he views the world and its inhabitants. So long has he gone without this touch of intrigue that he finds himself positively smitten. The compliment (sharpest knives indeed) sinks in, takes hold, and behind his pleasant smile, Bagoas' mind dances with ideas of how to repay it properly.

There is a Persian proverb that says one learns courtesy from the discourteous. It does not explicitly extend its validity to other contexts, but it does make intimations: learn the wisdom of sobriety from a drunken fool; grace from those sadly lacking.

However, he is not at all sure what he may possibly learn from this. If one knows not what to make of a situation, perhaps it is best not to find oneself in it. Were Johannes Cabal a woman, Bagoas would suspect him of deliberately spilling the drink; as he is not, Bagoas doesn't know what to make of it, other than having outstayed his welcome.

Horst's clothes ruined, Bagoas' hopes of intrigue-making squandered, he finds momentary respite in helping the barkeep mop up the mess. "There is no need for apology," he tells the fairer-coloured of the brothers (and, indirectly, the dark-haired one as well). "Too much of a good thing often renders a man loose-limbed and more besides," he adds, sparing a thought to his late King and Master, to whom strong wine often proved too tempting.

To Horst, "In retrospect, I fear I've made an error of judgement: my timing is unforgivable, but perhaps my departure can go a ways in redeeming myself in your eyes. If you would excuse me."

Few things are as effective at spoiling a close conversation as a lapful of whisky; so startled is Horst that he doesn't have the opportunity to react properly, enhanced speed or no, and can only concentrate on not accidentally crushing his glass of gin tonic in his hand. He sets the glass down as he stands, whisky running in large wet tracks down the legs of his trousers and joining the spattered puddle on the floor.

"I beg your pardon," Horst says to the barkeep and Bagoas alike with no small amount of strain in his voice at being presented with a situation he absolutely cannot salvage. He swabs ineffectually at his trousers with several small bar napkins while the bartender and Bagoas attempt to mop up the rest of the mess. It doesn't take Horst long to give up on his part of the endeavor.

As a vampire, he isn't sure he can actually get a headache; funny how he has one anyway.

"Johannes," Horst says curtly, stinking like a whole orgy of alcoholics. "We should go."

Somewhere in the back of his sullen, intoxicated mind, Johannes supposes that both Horst and Bagoas think he did that on purpose. Fine. Let them think so. He certainly doesn't do much to correct the impression; anyway, he might as well have done it on purpose, he reasons, like he gives a damn, like Horst couldn't stand a little public embarrassment for a change.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Home is sounding like a good idea right now. He wanted to stay home in the first place. The--whatever he is, the foreign hijra or eunuch, looks exceedingly uncomfortable. He's not the only one; look, Herr, Fräulein, I'm drunk., he could say. I don't want to be here, in a broad or specific sense, you don't want me to be here, I think we can agree that by any definition no one wants to be having this conversation right now. So why don't we--

Johannes does not say this. He instead tips the remaining whisky back into his mouth. It burns going down. "No, carry on," he says with a gesture indicating Horst and Bagoas and their little interlude. "Don't let me stop you."

Horst knows when Johannes is being purposely obstinate. Defiant. He's done it since he was about six years old, since he insisted on disliking fish at dinner because Father took Horst out fishing that morning and Johannes (who couldn't yet swim) was too young to be invited along and had thrown a tantrum. It's what Johannes does; he turns into a first class brat when someone tells him he's done something out of line. The alcohol isn't helping.

Horst is soaked halfway down and thoroughly irritated with the way Johannes seems to have set out to sabotage their entire evening. He's in no mood to be patient with his brother's immaturity right here in front of everyone.

Instead, he smiles softly and leans in to curl one hand around the back of Johannes's neck, sticky-wet fingers tangling into the hair at his nape, then bends in to press his mouth near to the shell of Johannes's ear. Hushed and low, he intones, "If you don't stand up and walk politely out of this bar with me right now, please believe I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out. Little brother."

Whether willingly or otherwise, Bagoas does not say, you already have.

When Horst moves, Bagoas extricates himself from between the men, and bows his head. There are times when being dismissed and dismissing oneself is nearly the same thing. Regardless, both hold the desired outcome in this particular context.

The eunuch slips away from the continuing conversation, as silent and unobtrusive as if he never insinuated himself to begin with.

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somelittleinfamy - 2013-03-11 22:26 (UTC) - Expand

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trojanhorst - 2013-03-11 22:40 (UTC) - Expand

Bagoas, dear lovely practical Bagoas, gets a grateful smile. Yes, he can look after the surly drunken newbie while the adults are talking.

Bagoas catches Glitch's eye, sends him a small, secret smile, then returns to his own particular brand of crowd control.

"Hardly." Johannes laughs. He has a clear, piercing voice, more so when he's not endeavoring to lower it for purposes of solemnity and seriousness, which is projecting it unfortunately at the moment. He lifts up his empty shot glass and makes a great show of looking at it. "Maybe a little tipsy," he allows. "What of it? Would he not have a little railroad tracked into his skull if I were sober? I don't believe I'm that drunk, Herr--"

He makes a face, clearly trying to recall Long's name and if he's met him yet. Instead he shakes his head--"I'm being lectured on temperance by a," he flicks his fingers, "yaoguai, or a yōkai, or a djinn. Mein Gott." Johannes clears his throat and waves his hand again, in the universal gesture for oh, do go on. "Never mind," he says in thick, slurred English. "I'm very sorry. No, go on. Do carry on with the. Lighthouses."

And now the fellow calls him a demon!? Long sits up very straight in his chair, eyes flashing; to be called in the first place English, and then to be mistaken for some mere ambitious little spirit...!

--no, no, prudence. Folly to be aggravated by a sot, and all that. Long keeps his mouth primly shut.

Still, it is probably just as well Bagoas slides on into the conversation, all things considered.

There is half a moment there where Glitch tenses and prepares to jump in a break up a fight at his nice, civilized, cozy meeting. Cooler heads prevail but...bad. Bad bad bad. This is why there's never been much of a coalition among the citizens, he thinks, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'll want a translation later," he mutters, mostly to himself, and looks up again.

"Unfortunately, I don't...I don't know much more, hence asking for help with looking into it further." For which he's now kicking himself. Investigate first, present findings later, doing otherwise leads to getting dismissed as a crackpot. "Which from what we've gathered means climbing or-- I guess Maddy could take me up in the plane, though it'd be easier with something that hovered."

Visions of da Vinci-like contraptions dance through his head but are qucikly dismissed. He leans back against the mantle and folds his arms, a bit morose. "Sorry. If Tony were still here he'd probably have the whole thing sorted out and blasted to bits by now, but...you're stuck with me."

Glitch knows that stare but it's long since past time he did anything but stare right back. In this case the stare is deeply unimpressed, and capped off with an eyeroll. He's not translating but he gets the gist.

"Yes, it-" And then Johannes goes on and gets stared at.

Edited 2013-03-05 16:22 (UTC)

061 ± [visual / location: the black friar] done with all the circlin' round

Re: SOME TIME LATER

HMPH says Long.

they see me rollin'! (Horst, feel free to threadhop for damage control :D)

(haha yes horst save them from themselves)

Enter Sasquatch! Only, you know, not at all what am I even talking about

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and one more

<3~

horst can TRY

lawl

also what the hell did I wake up to

interjecting more

IN WHICH KERI INTERJECTS WITH ICONS