(nancytribe)
Why was it, no matter where one went these days, more and more people seemed to be paired off already? The best looking, the best dressed, and the most personable ones almost always were. That left rather slim, and often distasteful, pickings for the rest of us.
I passed a few single men wending my way through the lobby, and there were fewer still sitting at the smaller tables in the hotel restaurant. Most were of the aforementioned "distasteful" sort, the others, not my type. It was all rather depressing, and... hello, what's this?
There was a new face at the next table but one from me. He was very easy on one's eyes, and studied the menu with an expression thoughtful enough to betoken at least a scrap of intellect. I knew I never saw him before. I felt quite certain I would remember, if I had. I wondered idly what he would think if I sent a bottle of wine to his table.
Another gentleman, older, not nearly so well dressed, entered the restaurant and went over to the young man's table with only a moment's hesitation. Charming, I thought. I should have known he was taken already.
'Mr Davis-Jones?'
All right, so they didn't know one another. This was all to the good, from my perspective.
'. . . .I'm with the Council of --'
'Sod off.'
'-- the Council of Watchers, and --'
'What part of "sod off" did you fail to understand the first time?'
A swallow of coffee went up my nose, as I snorted to avoid laughing aloud at the remark. I held up the menu as a bit of a shield to hide my amusement (which surely would have been obvious to the most casual of observers), and blotted away any evidence of sudden hilarity with my napkin.
It was only after I regained my composure that all the ramifications of the interloper's words struck me with their full force. There was another Watcher's Council? Even after the First Evil struck the heads off that particular hydra by blowing up their headquarters?
A shame, that was. It was rather a nice building, even if one couldn't say the same for the people who worked there (who were also of the past tense now, like their offices-cum-sepulchre). The texts, however...
Ripper told me about some of the Council's reserve holdings years ago. When I got word of the explosion, the people I was with at the time believed me sensitive enough to weep for strangers. Bugger them. I was crying for the loss of those irreplaceable manuscripts and books with only a single extent copy left in existence.
'. . . .it's so important that --'
'Anyone who managed to survive volunteer to put himself in harm's way for the revenent of a dead organisation that needs to have a stake driven through its corporate heart?'
I thought I was growing to like this Davis-Jones very much. At the very least, he had the good sense to not want to entangle himself with the Council. I knew I found his use of metaphor appealing. Driving a stake through their heart, indeed. That was something I wouldn't mind seeing. The Council of Watchers seemed to keep coming back like vermin, no matter who, or what, tried to exterminate them.
'You can turn around, walk out the door, and leave now -- before you put me off my food and I become genuinely upset, or, they can find your corpse gutted like a fish in an alley somewhere. Your call.'
The tone of Davis-Jones' voice (low, measured, even), and the look in his eyes (predatory - like a hawk, or a falcon), told me at a glance (all I dared to risk) the threat wasn't an idle one.
After I listened to their entire conversation, I was rather glad I hadn't had the opportunity to send him a bottle of wine, after all. Such an abrupt introduction would have been far too premature for the still-nebulous plans beginning to coalesce in my mind.
I wanted to know more about who he was (Davis-Jones - whatever his given name might be), and why the Council wanted him at this particular time. For that matter, I wanted to know more about who and what comprised the Council itself in these latter days.
This could turn into a diverting long-term project, with an extremely satisfying pay-off, if the information I found out was favourable to my intentions. Perhaps what the First Evil couldn't accomplish by hacking away at the Council's limbs from without could be done far more subtly, by means of a slow-acting poison from within...
I passed a few single men wending my way through the lobby, and there were fewer still sitting at the smaller tables in the hotel restaurant. Most were of the aforementioned "distasteful" sort, the others, not my type. It was all rather depressing, and... hello, what's this?
There was a new face at the next table but one from me. He was very easy on one's eyes, and studied the menu with an expression thoughtful enough to betoken at least a scrap of intellect. I knew I never saw him before. I felt quite certain I would remember, if I had. I wondered idly what he would think if I sent a bottle of wine to his table.
Another gentleman, older, not nearly so well dressed, entered the restaurant and went over to the young man's table with only a moment's hesitation. Charming, I thought. I should have known he was taken already.
'Mr Davis-Jones?'
All right, so they didn't know one another. This was all to the good, from my perspective.
'. . . .I'm with the Council of --'
'Sod off.'
'-- the Council of Watchers, and --'
'What part of "sod off" did you fail to understand the first time?'
A swallow of coffee went up my nose, as I snorted to avoid laughing aloud at the remark. I held up the menu as a bit of a shield to hide my amusement (which surely would have been obvious to the most casual of observers), and blotted away any evidence of sudden hilarity with my napkin.
It was only after I regained my composure that all the ramifications of the interloper's words struck me with their full force. There was another Watcher's Council? Even after the First Evil struck the heads off that particular hydra by blowing up their headquarters?
A shame, that was. It was rather a nice building, even if one couldn't say the same for the people who worked there (who were also of the past tense now, like their offices-cum-sepulchre). The texts, however...
Ripper told me about some of the Council's reserve holdings years ago. When I got word of the explosion, the people I was with at the time believed me sensitive enough to weep for strangers. Bugger them. I was crying for the loss of those irreplaceable manuscripts and books with only a single extent copy left in existence.
'. . . .it's so important that --'
'Anyone who managed to survive volunteer to put himself in harm's way for the revenent of a dead organisation that needs to have a stake driven through its corporate heart?'
I thought I was growing to like this Davis-Jones very much. At the very least, he had the good sense to not want to entangle himself with the Council. I knew I found his use of metaphor appealing. Driving a stake through their heart, indeed. That was something I wouldn't mind seeing. The Council of Watchers seemed to keep coming back like vermin, no matter who, or what, tried to exterminate them.
'You can turn around, walk out the door, and leave now -- before you put me off my food and I become genuinely upset, or, they can find your corpse gutted like a fish in an alley somewhere. Your call.'
The tone of Davis-Jones' voice (low, measured, even), and the look in his eyes (predatory - like a hawk, or a falcon), told me at a glance (all I dared to risk) the threat wasn't an idle one.
After I listened to their entire conversation, I was rather glad I hadn't had the opportunity to send him a bottle of wine, after all. Such an abrupt introduction would have been far too premature for the still-nebulous plans beginning to coalesce in my mind.
I wanted to know more about who he was (Davis-Jones - whatever his given name might be), and why the Council wanted him at this particular time. For that matter, I wanted to know more about who and what comprised the Council itself in these latter days.
This could turn into a diverting long-term project, with an extremely satisfying pay-off, if the information I found out was favourable to my intentions. Perhaps what the First Evil couldn't accomplish by hacking away at the Council's limbs from without could be done far more subtly, by means of a slow-acting poison from within...