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Thread: Horse Guards Parade (Let the Games Begin)

  1. #101
    Rod Stafford
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    Glad to be once again dressed on the right side of acceptable once again (although his t-shirt was an uncanny throwback to his admittedly looser sense of style, emblazoned with rainbow-coloured pony, it read: "Brohoof is magic!"), Rod no longer had that self-conscious Elephant Man kind of shuffle about him anymore, and he felt able to approach Mr. Plainview with some level of dignity - which was just as well, because he had to get close.

    "There's one more thing you need to know," he muttered, "Gabriel Rodermark was staked."

    And as the implication of his words took shape in Mr. Plainview's eyes, he left, closing the door behind him. Outside, he was barely afforded enough time to offer Sansa a sheepish glance before they were approached, this time by a blonde woman with an orange face and a quick step.

    "Mr. Stafford, my name is Mrs. Thatcher, I am to show you to your new accomodation. Please, follow me."

  2. #102
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    Sansa didn't want to be at Rod's mercy any more, but she followed him and the Oompa Loompa he was trailing out of the big room of desks and down some stairs and through a hallway and then they were out in the cool night air. She could smell honeysuckle, and while they walked she realized that they were somewhere on the Strand campus of Kings College.

    No one seemed much interested in talking and she considered making a break for it, but something stopped her. Making an enemy of Mr. Plainview would probably be a bad idea, and he seemed to think she should stay with Rod for the immediate future. Not to mention if she was still being tracked by vampire hunters leading them straight to the Dunsirn's door would be fairly rude. As they entered some student housing, upscale but certainly with that college dorm feel, she felt for her mobile only to belatedly realize that it had been vanished along with her clothes and shoes.

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  3. #103
    Rod Stafford
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    It was starting to feel like a package holiday, what with being ushered around by perfect strangers, and it didn't help that the campus was so upmarket that it was almost a hotel. The foyer was blissfully empty, disturbed only by the soft clicking of shoes upon the tiled floor, and the elevator didn't stink of piss - that was when you knew it was a classy establishment. Mrs. Thatcher had explained en route that this was to be his new place of residence while he was with the college, partly because of his newly acquired position within it, and largely, he suspected, because his last home became the site of a massacre. Their guide was silent thereafter, and he was glad of it, for she oozed an intolerable mutton-dressed-as-lamb air of superiority - his people patience was wearing dangerously thin.

    "Your room, Mr. Stafford. You can see yourself in, yes?" she handed him a key, considered Sansa for the briefest instant, and shrugged, "Anyway, good night."

    Inside, they were greeted by a narrow living space with a sofa, coffee table, and shelves, to the left there was a kitchenette tucked away behind a breakfast bar, and to the right - Rod opened the door and turned on the light - a bathroom complete with its own modest shower space. He turned on his heel to face Sansa, who was lingering in the doorway looking somewhat lost, and kept stealing glances down the corridor to the lift, and presumably, to an escape.

    "Look, before you go, you can at least wash the entrails from your hair."

  4. #104
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    She didn't need to be invited in, but Sansa found herself strangely unwilling to properly cross the threshold. "What... what if they follow me here again?" She looked up and met his eyes, a haunted look in her own.

  5. #105
    Rod Stafford
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    "They won't. Besides, this place is protected. You're safe here."

    Under the shadow of her doubts, Sansa was a pitiful sight; she wore anxiety like an old shawl. How changeable a creature she was, thought Rod, when she could stand in his doorway crusted in the blood of her enemies, and quiver. There was simply no way he could allow her to leave looking like that. He took her hand with a wry grin, and pulled her inside. The door was closed before objections took flight.

    "Go and have a scrub. I'll put the kettle on."

  6. #106
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    She nodded mutely, crossing the living room and ensconcing herself in the bathroom. On the other side of the closed door she could hear Rod puttering about, no doubt locating a kettle for some tea. It felt oddly comforting, and she turned on the water in the shower, stripping off her borrowed clothes and stepping in while it was still cold.

    Sansa gasped, scrubbing at her limbs with a hard bar of soap and hopping about a little while the water began to warm up. The cold helped clear her head, but she was grateful for the heat when it came, letting the hot water cascade over her head. The water swirled pink down the drain until the application of soap and shampoo cleaned up the remaining residue from the evening's brutalities.

    Sansa didn't linger, wary of using up all the hot water before Rod was able to wash up, and pulled on the sweat pants and t-shirt she'd been given after she was done drying off. She cracked open the bathroom door, putting on the vent fan to deal with the swirls of moisture in the air, and cautiously stepped out, her barefeet padding on the floor as she looked for Rod.

  7. #107
    Rod Stafford
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    The kettle was spewing steam and there were empty cups on the breakfast bar. Rod stood in the open French doors at the end of the room. Beyond, an exquisite panorama of the Thames, an artery of black glass weaving sharply into the heart of the city. Roads shimmered like rivers of gold on the other side, further along the London Eye dominated the horizon, a blazing ring of blue, and further still stood the Palace of Westminster and its Clock Tower, which pierced the night sky like a patriot's sabre. It was another sleepless night for London, and yet, from where he was standing, the city seemed strangely at peace.

    There was a refreshing chill on the wind, the sort to excavate the mind of all care, and Rod hugged himself against it as he came to rest upon the balconette railings. It took him but a moment to familiarise himself with his surroundings. If he glanced to his right, he saw the Victoria Embankment in all of its arboreal splendour, and nested behind it was Charing Cross Station, its glass-domed roof peaking out from amongst the trees. And should one look further, were one indeed capable of percieving wavelengths beyond the limited range of visible light, such a gaze would draw a straight line which intersected first the Ministry of Defence, and then Horse Guards Parade, St. James's Park, and Buckingham Palace, and make a beeline through the proud estates of Belgravia, and the grey urban ranks beyond, until it arrived at a tall, unremarkable, leprous house in Jubilee Place, which was surely swarming with police, and was home to one very confused and lonely young man. Such was Rod's relationship with the great city.

    He was stirred from his solemn reverie by the soft patter of feet. And then he became aware of the indignant rumble of his forgotten kettle. He retreated from the window with a curse, and hurried across the room to make good on his promise of tea. Sansa looked surprisingly refreshed for someone without a pulse, there was a sheen to her still-damp hair and a warm glow in her cheeks that wasn't before there. She looked normal, and making a couple of teas, and pausing to consider things like milk and sugar, he felt normal, too. That was aside, of course, from the patina of dried blood that flecked his skin, but being a gentleman, he'd at least taken the time to wash his hands first. The cups were loaded onto a tray along with spoons, a milk carton, and a few sachets of sugar - the standard welcoming kit for any English residence - and then deposited onto the coffee table.

    "So, I wasn't entirely sure how you take it," Rod confessed, and promptly collapsed onto the couch, "Do you take it?"

  8. #108
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    "No," she said. "I mean, I like to hold the warm cup in my hands." Sansa poured herself a scant cup and demonstrated, holding it between both hands as if it were the Holy Grail. She curled up on the end of the couch opposite Rod, the tea steaming lightly in her grasp.

    "It's all just pantomime. I used to try to drink it, but it makes me sick." She brought it to her closed mouth and tipped the teacup enough so the hot liquid touched her lips, and inhaled the steam before taking the cup away. "Gabe makes - used to make fun of me because of it."

    Sansa faltered a bit, but continued, "He said that in a few years I won't care at all about tea, but it is still oddly comforting."

  9. #109
    Rod Stafford
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    "Old habits die hard," Rod said, with a shrug, "There was a time when I was obsessed with building my own psaltery. It took my housemates six months to talk me out of it. And even now, there is still a part of me that mourns the loss of the epic, and songs around the hearth."

    His smile disappeared behind the cup. It was a fond confession, a memory sweetened by time and experience - nostalgia had a way of making the shameful palatable. On the sofa, Sansa was a portrait of the mundane, curled cat-like against a cushion, nursing her tea - but that was all she was, a portrait; a replica. She did not hold the tea cup, she clung to it. But what a melancholy companion was nostalgia for the undead. Rod was an intelligent man, capable of unravelling scientific mysteries and philosophical conundrums in a busy afternoon, but, of all the mysteries he encountered, nothing vexed him more than the paradox of the woman he once knew and the woman who sat before him. Haunted by his thoughts, of the memory of a night not unlike that night, he contained his questions no longer.

    "Do you ever get angry about what happened to you, Sansa?"
    Last edited by Rod Stafford; Mar 17th, 2013 at 12:44:52 PM. Reason: not so "inteligent" after all

  10. #110
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    She was quiet for a minute, watching the steam rise out of her cup and disappear. Sansa shifted so her back was to the arm of the couch, and looked at Rod.

    "Yes. I do." She lifted the teacup halfway to her lips and then stopped, frowning and putting the cup on the coffee table. "My memories are a little patchy of that day, but I remember ...dying."

    Sansa chewed her lower lip. "Elizabeth Atkinson, one of Gabriel's ...'friends,' took me to a warehouse where he was meeting with a group of Garou. She wasn't supposed to, but she did, probably because she was a vindictive bitch." She didn't sound bitter when she spoke; she seemed detached from what she was talking about, almost as if it had happened to someone else.

    "And everything went sideways because the Baali crashed the meeting. The Garou gathered thought it was a trap. Our car was destroyed by a ..." She shook her head a bit. "That's a fuzzy bit." She paused again, but Rod remained quiet, letting her talk.

    "A Garou came running at me." Sansa remembered seeing the whites of the creature's rolling eyes, as it rushed without thought out of the hell of the warehouse. It had been terrified, she knew now, but at the time... "It slashed my arm and tossed me aside. I hit a car, or something. Gabriel told me my back was broken. I was dying.

    "And then he was there. With me." She shrugged, hugging her knees to her chest, the almost forgotten ache of his loss flaring up again. "And he brought me back."

    Sansa wiped at her cheek, finding a bit of red on her hand from a tear she hadn't realized was falling. She reached for a kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. "And yes, sometimes I resent it. But if I had the chance to choose to stay with him, to pick this life had the circumstances been different and he had offered it to me later... I would have said yes without hesitation."

    The whispers rose in her head for a moment, and she remembered rubbing her vitae into the mouth of the hunter she had let go. Sansa frowned, shaking her head a little to clear her mind.

  11. #111
    Rod Stafford
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    "That's love for you," Rod said, staring absently into his cup, "It brings out the madness in each of us."

    Perhaps it was a little cold, even for him, to so readily dismiss the romantic oathes of a vampire, but Rod was still reeling from Sansa's shameless confession, and found not within him the capacity to care. In one brief clumsy sentence, Sansa had successfully dispelled any sense of sympathy she'd conjured with her inherently tragic tale. His fears were confirmed. Sansa could have her resentment, for what it was worth. For Rod, there was only regret, which was as equally useless, but no less palpable in his voice, in his eyes, in his heart.

    "You were right, Sansa. You're not the girl I remember. Truly, I am sorry for your loss."

  12. #112
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    "Fuck you too," she said, tiredly. She didn't have the emotional strength to fight with him over his cold dismissal of her.

    Sansa stood up and got up, but she could feel in her bones how late the hour was. "I'll get out of your hair, Rod. I wouldn't want to subject you to my company any longer." She would just go out into the pre-dawn and look for a place to sleep the day. Or maybe she would just watch the sunrise. She was across the room with her hand on the doorknob before he could blink.

  13. #113
    Rod Stafford
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    "Far be it from me to impede a good dramatic exit, but there are vampire hunters at large out there, and we're not long off dawn."

    There was within him a raging embittered voice that protested his words with venomous incredulity. It drew battle lines against the part of him that, against all odds, somehow remained sympathetic towards the vampire waif, self-pity and all. Perhaps he felt, in some abstract way, responsible for her miserable fate. It had to be something like that, something hatefully subconscious, like repressed guilt. Whatever feeling it was that compelled him to rise from his comfortable sofa, cup in hand, and stroll after his wobbler-throwing guest, he hid it well. He took another sip of tea, and with a glance at her feet, he remarked:

    "Also, you seem to have forgotten your shoes."

  14. #114
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    She looked down at her feet, as though they belonged to someone else. "I suppose I have."

    Sansa took her hand off the doorknob. "I... I'm sorry about your friends. I didn't know... I tried to protect her." She didn't look up from the ground. "Wasn't good enough." Can't save anyone, it seems.

  15. #115
    Rod Stafford
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    "Yes. Well, there's plenty of blame to go around."

    Rod spoke with a sort of clipped reserve, not unlike Mr. Plainview, when he was forced to consider the evening's tragedies. It had been a long and exhausting night, and if he was to indulge Sansa's morose conversation a moment longer, there was a very real danger his tea break would be spoiled. Since it appeared that he had successfully defused Sansa's tantrum - with the shower afterglow gone, she looked as drained as he felt - Rod retreated, and lead the way to the bedroom.

    "Let us get you settled in for the... the day. Help me with this wardrobe. We'll put the matress inside. Somehow, I imagine simply closing the curtains falls short of your sleeping requirements."
    Last edited by Rod Stafford; Mar 18th, 2013 at 03:36:37 PM.

  16. #116
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    She nodded mutely, the uncomfortable silence stretching on until it was truly awkward; the mattress moved easily with her help and was stuffed carefully into the wardrobe. Sansa looked at it, and tried to be thankful for any accommodations at all, but all she could think of was her cozy flat with Gabe and her bed and the light proof curtains, the Stradivarius violin that the hunters had smashed, the puzzle she'd been working on and her pillow.

    Rod handed her a blanket, although he probably thought it was wasted on a thing that didn't really sleep. She forced herself to meet his eyes, and nodded. "Thank you." Then she stepped inside the wardrobe and pulled the doors shut, closing herself up in the darkness.

    She curled up on her side, the blanket covering her, and waited for dawn and the deep death-like sleep it would bring.

  17. #117
    Rod Stafford
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    Even in his heady state of weariness, Rod didn't fail to identify the surreal nature of the scene: his guest easing herself gingerly into the padded wardrobe, the doors sealing her inside like some cheap oaken tomb. It was a sight that should've repulsed him, but instead he managed to appreciate the element of bizarre comedy which went with it, hand-in-hand. He drew the curtains and left the room, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

    He sat until his tea was cold, watching cold light stretch itself across the floor, and soften. Through the open window, he heard the distant drone of the city; it was the sleepy start before the mad rush. The very thought of it made deadweights of his limbs. And yet, sleep eluded him. He rose heavily from the sofa and drifted across the room. Then, careful to not make a sound, he left the flat. The corridor was deathly still. The elevator made barely a whisper. Everything around him, inanimate or otherwise, appeared to be acutely aware of the sacrosanct need for silence. When he stepped out into the street, the air was stagnant, as if frozen by the cold.

    The wind was cutting. And, all around him, the roads, pavements, cars, buildings, windows, and faces were saturated in a deep blue haze. It was oppressive, withering the streetlamp glare into small timid orbs. Finally, following his feet, he arrived at his destination: a solitary red telephone box. The graceless old door gave a creak as he entered. Inside, it gave the impression of a tool shed that had seen years of neglect, and smelled as such. It was blissfully quiet. That was until Rod lifted the reciever and it started to drone miserably. He deposited a fifty pence piece into the coin slot, paused, his finger hovering over zero, took a breath, then dialed. Once, twice, three agonising times the ringing tone bleated into his ear, and then, on the fourth, there was a click.

    "Hello?"

    It was a woman's voice, coarse from a broken sleep. Rod stared blankly ahead at the grey little number on the screen. The reciever was pressed against his face like it was trying to burrow through it.

    "Who's there?"

    There was a faint hiss, the stiring of bedsheets. Rod closed his eyes and made no attempt to speak. The phone might have been a pillow. Outside, the wind blew, rattling the glass. After a long pause, the woman spoke again, this time with clarity.

    "... Rod?"

    His eyes opened at the mention of his name, and he considered suddenly, as if for the very first time, the pocked mouthpiece in front of him. He tilted the reciever away from his ear, a tremor in his hands, as if to address the phone personally. He regarded it with trepidation, a pained look upon his face. At last, he licked his dry lips to speak.

    "Ro-"

    The reciever was buried into its cradle with a clatter. He pressed his head against the cold metal box, and screwed his eyes shut, snorting rapidly at the dank air. Again, he took the reciever, and this time smashed it against the metal. When he discovered his efforts had failed to silence the treacherous taunting dialing tone, Rod collapsed in convulsion of desperate heaving sobs, and shielded his eyes from the first shimmer of sun upon the Thames.

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