Path of the Vampire forum

“Victoria!”
Elliot Lancaster didn’t stand much on ceremony; the baritone of his voice rang out across the space, booming in its insistence but, at the same time, never harsh or demanding.

“What?!” The younger woman called back. She had an Irish accent, dreadlocks, and a stud in her nose. God knows why she was in Harper Rock – probably drifting, like most travellers do. Caught a bus somewhere, and got off at the end of the line – which happened to be Harper Rock. Regardless, she’d come to the pub looking for a job just as Lancaster was looking to hire at Bunk. It made sense to him to hire those who needed the job; those who depended on the small amount of money that they might make in a menial job to get them to their next destination. To feed them, and clothe them. The basic necessities. These nomads didn’t require material objects, and didn’t cling to sentimentality.

“How many of these sheets did you order?” Elliot called; he was upstairs in the storeroom, calling down the stairs to Victoria, who was downstairs stripping the bunks of the old sheets. Elliot frowned. “And the towels? How many towels?” he called.

“You don’t have to shout, Lancaster. I’m right here,” the soft voice answered from the bottom stair. Her feet barely made a sound as she took the stairs two at a time to come and stand next to Elliot. Victoria, too, frowned. “Well I didn’t order that many,” she said. Elliot glanced sideways. He could see the woman mentally counting. When she stepped away, it was to pull open the drawer of the filing cabinet – she flicked through a couple of the folders before she retrieved a single piece of paper.

“Yeah, look. I only order 24 of each of the sheet sets. 48 of the towels….” She trailed off. Elliot nodded. They’d only paid for a certain amount but had somehow received double. A glitch in the system, a mistake at the warehouse. Something.

“Okay. Can you give them a call in the morning and organise someone to come pick up the excess? We haven’t got space for them. Explain the situation,” Elliot said. “But you’ve been here … what, you were supposed to finish an hour ago, weren’t you?” Elliot asked. “Go home Victoria. You’re done for the day,” he said with a grin.

The Irish woman was a relatively new employee, but she’d fallen into step with the business like a fish into water. She’d had plenty of experience – her mother and father ran a bed and breakfast back on the outskirts of Dublin. Victoria was the day manager, the woman who took care of all the stuff that Elliot couldn’t achieve at night time. And she never went home on time, either. Always stayed beyond her appointed hours. She laughed and, without too much fuss, did as she was told. Elliot finished organising the new stock; Jessica had arrived for the night shift, and he made sure she knew to wash all the new sheets before fitting them to the beds before leaving her to it. Bunk wasn’t as busy yet as it could be, and the women were able to work on their own. They came down to the pub to help out when they had nothing else to keep them occupied.

It was to the pub that Elliot went next. It was busy, but not intolerably so. He pushed his hair out of his eyes as he conferred with the changeover of staff behind the bar. He didn’t have to work, but he found himself behind the bar anyway, checking on the stock to see if there was anything else he would have to order. It was then that he saw Charlie, sitting by herself.

”Charlie. How’s things?” he asked. He had recently taken Charlie under his wing, and the woman knew that she could come to him if there was ever anything that she needed. He hoped that his current position behind the counter didn’t deter her from asking for help, if she needed it.

Bunk was another of Elliot’s baby’s, as if the Irish pub baby had grown up and Bunk had spawned as a replacement to take position as an endeavour he could put his mind and efforts to.

It fit him, this place where transient travelers laid their heads for a while. There was a certain irony to the permanent impermanent nature to the people who stayed there. Even Victoria with her brogue fit the type who would work there. She reminded Pi of the mania of Dublin, the bars, the beer, the people all intent to revelry as if the place itself, home of dark bear with thick foam, infused the populace with gaiety. Temple Bar, that’s what this reminded her of, a piece of Irish planted in the wilds of Canada by two owners who were not a bit Irish themselves. The thought made her smile.

It had brought her back here though, Elliot’s interest and his busy nature in this place, like it always did. She felt him enter the bar from Bunk. Pi liked to think of it as a sixth sense. She smiled and shook her head. She was an idiot. But she’d bet money she was right, even if she couldn’t see him walk the floor, she knew he did.

The essence of the man imbued every part of this place and she could no more stay away as she could change her current nature. And while she had not travelled since her change, she could still appreciate the irony of what they, he had created here. Even if she didn’t quite understand the drive behind his need to have it, or the joy he got from it.

At their very heart they were so completely opposite, her and her soulful musician. There wasn’t much they had in common, nor saw on an equal footing and there was quite often times when his way of approaching a problem made her want to pull her hair out. Not right now though. Right now she was tucked behind the bar, squatting, pushing bottles to the side as she counted stock they got in from Ariadne’s winery. Blood was a hard thing to hide from health inspectors but between Elliot’s charisma and her … well, she suspected it was her menace, they managed to keep their stash hidden. Right now their stash was getting low on… virgin blood? Jesus.

Shaking her head, she shuffled bottles, rotating the stock forward before pushing herself upwards.

It was good to be busy. It was good to fill the seconds, minutes and hours with something other than killing things. She wondered at the movies depicting vampires as languid creatures with no more thought of enterprise as they had to lounge around in black looking scary. But what does an eternal life look like when it comprised of something so bland? How could anyone contemplate forever doing nothing.

No, this was better. Anything had to be better than nothing.

Wiping her hands on the towel at her hip she popped up from behind the bar, her pixie face curious as she heard Lan speak before her attention turned to the woman, curious.

Charlie. Another of Elliot’s lost birds. Not that Pi didn’t have a few of her own through the years since her turning but Elliot had a way of collecting the broken or lonely. Displaced humanity was his forte, the soft part of his soul still nestled in his undead heart couldn’t help itself from adopting these waifs of the world. Over the years Pi had given up trying to help those who were newly turned, which made her frown, since it was once a large part of what she thought was her obligation to what they had been. But that had been a long time ago, and it felt like she hadn’t even thought of another like Charlie, new, on their own, needing a home. But Elliot had.

The problem now being, she should actually make the effort at this moment to do exactly that. It irritated her a little that Elliot’s nature put pressure on her to pull herself out of her self imposed shell. She had tried in the past,but had failed, and quite frankly, she rather liked her limited circle. It was a happy circle. She was happy. And she wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to include new people who could possibly turn out to be disappointing similar to every other she had tried for.

Except it was Elliot

And he was standing there.

And so was Charlie.

There was no good way to escape (except maybe a Tome)

But that would irritate Elliot and he would turn those eyes on her.

Those eyes would be disappointed.

And even if she wanted to slap him for making her come out of her shell.

She supposed she must.

Pi sighed again, walking forward, a pleasant smile pasted on her face. It wasn’t really she wasn’t social (okay, maybe she wasn’t), so much as she… yeah, no.. she was probably just not that social.

But she’d work on it. Cause she happened to be in love with one of the most social vampires in the whole of the ******* city. Now there was some irony right there.

“Bonjour Charlie…” she smiled in welcome, bumping herself into Elliot’s side but not looking in his direction. Instead her gaze, blue eyes welcoming, hair pulled away from her face in a loose chignon so none of it fell into her eyes like it was wont to do.

“I’m Pi… finally. We meet non?”

Pi’s hip nudged against Elliot’s. Or, more appropriately, her hip nudged somewhere along his thigh as she slid in beside him. She was much shorter than he was. She didn’t just have a pixie, she had a bit of pixie structure, too—at least, to Elliot it seemed like she did. Not that that was anything new; a lot of people appeared to be pixies to Elliot’s six-foot-six. A contented, welcoming smile warmed Elliot’s face as his arm slipped around Pi’s waist. From the night that he had been turned, she was an anchor for him. A sire, to begin with, first and foremost. While he found his feet he’d done what he was told; until he found his feet and realised he didn’t like doing what he was told. Until he learned about the politics of the city on his own; that he and Pi would, in the end, disagree quite violently on how things were run.

They still did.

But that didn’t change how Elliot felt about her. It should have, really, for all intents and purposes, but it didn’t. Because the two were inextricably linked. If Elliot were white and Pi was black, in the years that they had spent side by side they’d bled into each other. Now both grey, or a mix of hard colours. A yin and yang, and they could not be separated. If they were, they would suffer greatly, each for their own individual reasons.

He was glad that she had not succeeded in joining Tytonidae. He wouldn’t rub it in; he knew that it was a sore spot for her, a lamentation that he would not rub salt into. But he was glad. Because he could feel her slipping from his grasp as that group got its claws into her, and a desperate fury had begun to rise.

But she was here now, with him. Not with them. She was here, and he could tell that she was trying. He watched, and listened as she and Charlie shared pleasantries. It was about time that the two of them met.

”Things have been…” he gave a slow shrug, ”So so. The backpackers is up and running,” he said, flicking his eyes skyward to indicate the space upstairs. ”And the night’s still young, you know. Kesha could still be on the cards,” he said with a teasing smirk.

It had nearly been three years. No. Yes. No… no it was, yes, three years. The anniversary of her turning was nearly here and she wondered absently what about her had changed in the intervening time. Lots, if she were to make a list, more than she had imagined possible when she’d first arrived in this city.

Love, passion, family, hatred, envy and more blood and death. Except the later was hardly a stranger to her, even if she was trying to make it that way. But family, now that was something she was learning to adjust to. Settling into the arm Elliot wound around her waist Pi smiled at the woman in front of her, nodding in reply before extending her hand and grasped the offered handshake. Pi was small, and the rest of her followed suit. She was used to being the smallest in the room, and encouraged the assumption small meant harmless. Slipping a welcoming smile into the mix she fixed the other woman with an expression that finished off the smile, as if topping the greeting with a cherry. A cherry of … err welcome.

Yeah, Pi wondered, maybe the cherry on top gaze was going bit over the top. Was there such a thing as… too welcoming? She thought maybe not. Hoped maybe not.

These days there was very little in this city that could frighten her, or not be in a position to do something about. She could afford to be a little more trusting. Surely.

She had crawled her way to the top of what constituted the food chain of this city. Or as close as her mediocre attempt got her. These days she trained very little, and actively pushed herself even less. If last year was the year of catalystic change. This year was one of quiet waiting. Pi waited for those in her family to do more than moan at what she didn’t do. She waited on Elliot in their Crypt, content for the moment to indulge in what they were to each other. Waited too for … maybe this. Maybe she wanted to feel needed again, to have something to do, something to… someone to.

Pi couldn’t finish the sentence because her brain couldn’t come up with a place for it to land. It flit about, alighting on potentials before darting away to other possibilities. How could she be of help to this woman? What advice did she have? Could there be something she could contribute that would have meaning for a new vampire. She used to think she did, these days those thoughts continued to fly about her head, rarely landing in one place, and when they did, rarely staying for longer than a moment before darting off again.

“Kesha?” Pi asked, trying not to let her own meandering thoughts get so far away from her that she lost the thread of the conversation in front of her. “The singer, oui?” she asked. Because Elliot’s references were invariably musical, so much so Pi had become attuned to the musical world as a potential reference material for conversation.

“Kesha isn’t quite… your speed is it Lan?” she asked, tilting her gaze up for a second before transferring the bemused expression to Charlie, knowing that there was something to that comment, a vein of humour Elliot had thread into the conversation.

“Do you like this artist Charlie?” she asked then, wondering if the woman had convinced Elliot to sing this.. Kesha in the past. Wondering, about then made her curious just how he, with his soulful voice, had managed it.

Elliot scoffed and rolled his shoulders. He could start a debate in an attempt to defend himself, though he didn’t really think that he needed defending. Not himself, personally, but the music that he chose to play, and sing. Some music was utterly ridiculous, yes, but it was what made people happy. People have different tastes. Different things inspired them. And Elliot relished the challenge of singing and playing something that he wouldn’t normally sing or play. There was nothing to be ashamed about.

”Yeah, I sang Wrecking Ball. I don’t mind it. Why should I? It’s a perfectly reasonable song for a perfectly reasonable crowd. And it’s a challenge. My voice is nothing like Miley Cyrus’s, and so I like to… push my boundaries,” he said with a challenging tone. He had absolutely no shame, and wouldn’t be bullied into feeling it. Not that he felt bullied, per se, but he had always been faced with this kind of confrontation. People judging other people on their taste in music. Elliot was always curious, of course; he thought that taste in music said a lot about a person themselves. But he wouldn’t judge them badly. Would just maintain a vague curiosity about why they liked the music they did.

Of course Elliot did have his preferences. The same kind of preferences that Charlie had, by the sounds of it; his kind of preferences blared over the speakers, when the customers hadn’t lined up their songs on the juke box or when there wasn’t a band playing live on the stage. Old school rock, music using real instruments, songs written by one person rather than by dozens. Yes, he did clearly have his preferences. And he did like to put his own twist on things, the things, the things that he chose to cover.

He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. He chewed on the inside of his lip, the curling of his fingers indicative of a man who was craving the grasping of a guitar. All this talk of music…

But he shook it out of his head, took a breath, and returned his focus to the women in front of him.

”Anyway. I’m glad you two have finally met,” Elliot said. This would be a good chance for Charlie and Pi to get to know each other better; and perhaps in the conversation that ensued, he’d learn more about Charlie, too. It was like a rhetorical push, getting Pi to open up a little bit.

Pi was being thrown the conversational ball and she held it in her hands like it was a grenade about to explode on her. Any minute how she’d be forced to come up with topics of conversation that seemed interested and invested in the dialogue to follow. There was a pattern to these types of conversations, parry and defense, a verbal repartee that she was never bloody good at.

She blinked once and smiled. Because smiling was good, smiling was the first, the middle and the end of all things social. If you smiled it meant you were a) harmless, b) happy and c) ****, she didn’t know if there was a c. Surely there was a c, yet, while she was standing there like a lump on a log trying to come up with it the seconds were ticking by like a time bomb, tick tick tick tick. So she nodded too.

In her mind she raced around for things to say, small offerings to throw out there so this conversation could move along on a more natural course, natural not being something she was entirely good at.

“I am too.” She offered, answering Elliot’s statement with a confirmation of her own. “So is that how you met? Over wrecking ball?” she asked, quite proud of herself for that one. The small question begged for a rejoinder, then everyone could participate in the fall out from innocuous query. Yeah, okay, she was okay with that question but maybe it needed more, a qualification from her about the previous topic.

Tip toeing around like she was in a mine field she threw out the observation because it seemed like the thing to do and because, well, she actually like the song, Wrecking Ball. The lyrics called to her. If you set aside for the moment the woman’s unlikely music video and just listened to the song there was a story there; a sad one. It was about a woman who tried to hard, pushed too much, pushed at the wrong things and had tried but in all the wrong ways. If Pi were to dissect the words of the song she had to admit a certain affinity for the poor woman who sang. Pi was very much the same person. She very likely was pushing and pulling at this relationship in all kinds of wrong ways, and hoping to god she didn’t completely screw it up like the woman in the lyrics.

“And I like Wrecking Ball.. the song. It’s… a sad sort of … yearning isn’t it? That song. She … it makes me… wistful.” She finished, trying, but probably failing to explain herself properly.

Turning to Elliot she smiled. “I think I’d like to hear you sing that one… with your voice. It would be.. poignant.”

Pi wasn’t intentionally awkward. She just usually came off that way. She also wasn’t naturally stand offish, but she had a hard time communicating. Invariable she gave too little, or when she did give, it was like a sledgehammer, because anger or fear had given her too much courage to say what should probably have remained unsaid. What she had yet to perfect was the middle ground, where she could just… be natural.

So she leaned against the bar, instinctively mimicking Elliot, mirroring his position and let herself just ... try to enjoy the conversation. Keep it light. She cautioned herself. That's what makes a good meet and greet. Light. Interested. Topical.

Yeah, that's what she'd do. Topical.