5024/A Vampire and an Elemental Walk In To A Bar

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A Vampire and an Elemental Walk In To A Bar
Date of Scene: 04 February 2021
Location: The Empire Club - Lounge
Synopsis: That guy is weird and she abets it.
Cast of Characters: Meggan Puceanu, Eric Brooks

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The careworn elegance of the Empire Club isn't improved any by a mildly shabby blonde girl technically legal enough to be here. She gets carded of course when she asks for a drink. A hint of a smile comes to the bartender when she waits for him to clear her on the basis of legitimate by American law.

By UK standards, they'd all be free to binge-drink in the morning or afternoon soon as they've got their GCSEs or A-levels done.

Meggan's got a razor fine smile and eyes flickering with amusement as she requests a Pimm's Cup. Nothing fancy, but not too pink and froufrou. She dabbles her fingers in the air, and almost runs her hand over the back of a low leather seat stuffed in front of a small cocktail table. They'll know where to find her, when that drink is poured, since she is the only person sitting in the group of three.

A lazy kick of her heel allows her to assume a casual posture, leg crossed above the knee. All graceful, all lazy. The accentuated supine arch of her spine is unfairly youthful, unlike the hunched over and tired readers with their nose in the Guardian, the Independent, the worn-out annals of English news off the presses. She rests her chin on the heel of her hand, and thumbs through her phone with disinterest.

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade is having a bit of a week.

First, he got waylaid and stabbed during a vampire ambush he should've been smart enough to avoid. Thanks for the rescue, Ariah.  Then his usual plug for his specialized serum fell through, leaving the Daywalker wounded, starving, and struggling to retain his humanity for several very uncomfortable days.  Luckily, those days have passed.

He's looking a bit haggard, but the promise of a proper drink was enough to get him to leave his hideout.  One can only spend so much time in an abandoned meat packing plant.  So he's (reluctantly) removed his bulletproof vest and ventured out into public. Still wearing sunglasses inside, though.

"Pulteney.  Neat."  A glass of whisky is an easy order and pops up quickly.  Blade tosses a few bills on the bar, then picks up the only other freshly-made drink in sight and heads in Meggan's direction.  He's managed to figure out where it's going; we've got ourselves a regular Columbo on our hands.  He plinks both glasses down on the table with a distinct lack of ceremony.  "Hey."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Nothing like a drinking hole, even if it doesn't have the specially formulated plasma or whatever alchemical compound Blade needs to survive. To thrive. Is there a difference? Not in some people's books.

When the server gets around to flushing out a proper Pimm's Cup, or reasonably close, it's brought over and abandoned quick. Blade is more interesting; a Pulteney means money, respectable conversation. Not hanging out with an English broad thumbing through her phone and yapping on Instarkgram or Twitter or whatever those kids get up to today. He's much faster and more courteous about pulling it together. Though taking Meggan's cup earns a mild reassessment. No curled lip, not here. But it begs questions.

If the fangs or pointy ears were out, he'd possibly dare even sniff. Alas, the bartender is of firm stock. Good thing too considering half the resident visitors aren't straight up human but still members of the Commonwealth of hardscrabble subjects under their immortal queen.



Meggan, then, isn't taken totally by surprise. Not when the glass comes down, though the arm holding it earns a swift double take before those bright green eyes crinkle in the start of a smile that travels down rather than up. Her lips curve, and she nudges a look over her shoulder. "No sign of the Enchantress with an E," she adds. Like this is a surprise. "Not sure they'd let her through the door without swearing fealty or singing God Save the Queen."

Her effervescent shine is an easily found thing. Blade is encouraged to sit by her straightening, dropping the cheap phone onto the arm of the squared-off seat. "Hullo and all that glorious introductory stuff. You're a much better distraction than watching the latest numbers roll by on how damned our atmosphere is."

Eric Brooks has posed:
There's a reason that the Old Pulteney distillery is an institution in the UK.  The youngest scotch they create is on par with some of the better offerings in the world.  The briny-savory flavor is something that can't be found anywhere else and seems to appeal to Blade, at least.  So, with a twelve year-old glass in his hand, he leans against a rail while he tries to decide which banged-up chair is going to be kindest to his banged-up self. 

And then Meggan says the magic words.  It's an old-fashioned tradition, but that doesn't stop him from straightening his posture, raising his glass, and saying, "God save the Queen," intentionally mirroring her words and turning them into a salute.  Luckily for everyone, that particular 19th century tradition doesn't involve any singing.

His toast encourages him to take a healthy sip, which elicits a pleased rumble from the black-clad hunter.  "Our atmosphere isn't the only thing around here that's damned," he quips dryly.  "But I'm glad I'm more entertaining than that.  How about you, anything interesting happening?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
There indeed is. The murky savory undertones of the scotch have a way of sticking to the palate. Far from rotgut, but it coats the stomach, teases the body with a measured up glow.

Old-fashioned traditions are what they are, but she doesn't hesitate to lift the cup with its shimmery fizzy-esque libation. The warm hue speaks to summer time, to derbies and ridiculous hats, soft green afternoons, drizzle and shine. Far, far away from the grey cold of New York, dismal and snowy.

"Earth and water, but I prefer not to leave people too depressed. They know in their bones and their heart something is wrong, and that will prompt them to act when we speak gently. Forced hands never get far, much as I know." A splash of the liquor hits the glass, and she takes a sip, letting it roll around her tongue. "Interesting? I celebrated Imbolc, that counts as a good thing. No signs of the darker courts acting at the present, so I'll take it. Worrying about friends and such when they keep running afoul of trouble."

Eric Brooks has posed:
Despite the comparative oddness of Meggan's statement, Blade just nods and takes a second swallow, this one a bit more robust than the first.

Once he's cleared his palate, he shrugs a shoulder and nods agreeably.  "Shit like that comes with the territory, it seems.  My life was less complicated when all I had to worry about was vampires.  They kill people, I kill them, there's a whole Circle of Life/Death.  Now it's all 'Cthulhu this' and 'Enchantress that.'" 

Despite his words, he doesn't actually seem bothered or irritated.  In fact, there's something tugging at the corners of his mouth that almost resembles a smile.  Almost.  "I'm not much for dusty books and spooky rituals," he elaborates. His next question is humorously hopeful. "Couldn't we just punch everything?  Just... everything?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"It does?" The keen look from the blonde is measured, curious and open. Her eyes widen slightly at the way Blade speaks freely of vampires, though she hangs between words. A slight arc of her brows lifts even higher. "The circle of life and death? You sound like you're narrating the Dark World, or the Shadow Realms on the Beeb. Figures someone has to take up after Sir David, he cannot do it all."

A hint of a smile becomes wide, teasing. "Cthulhu this and Cthulhu that? You try being chased by a giant sea monster. I'd take you down to see for yourself but I am not sure you could take the depths. Pressure after about two hundred meters gets pretty intense, much less at the depths I was at. Not so worried about the oxygen bit, though, that's the easy one. You might have to reckon on that being a challenge without help from a proper Atlantean. Or someone like Amora."

So casually is that dropped that she sips her Pimm's Cup and gives a swirl to move the liquors around. "No spooky rituals, ah? I'll keep that in mind. We will have to go punching something later. Why, have you something to punch? I mean, is there something worth it?"

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Nothing that's Cthulhu-interesting," Blade admits, waving a hand dismissively.  "Just neighborhood shenanigans, well below your pay grade.  And hey, it's not like I have a personal issue with spooky rituals, they're just outside my area of expertise.  You be the wand and staff, I'll stick to being the sword and shield." A quick pause while he finishes most of his drink.  "That's an excerpt from 'Thus Punched Zarathustra.'" 

Another shrug from him.  He's self-aware enough to know his place in the world and be at peace with it while making Nietzsche-themed jokes.  Someone might be a little smarter than they look.

"I'll let you know if things get exciting, in any case.  As long as I don't forget. The 'team' part of being a team player is still new to me."  Another statement that's probably not made or heard every day, but it's accurate enough.  Blade punctuates himself by lifting his glass until it's between himself and a lamp.  The dregs of his scotch cast an amber glow in front of him when they're hit by the light.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Don't doubt shenanigans are valuable. They can be. Mm, they mixed this a bit wrong. Too heavy on the mint and ginger ale, not enough of the gin itself." A woeful frown is pulled for all of a few seconds. Still, it's a comment from a skilled mixologist in her own right. Comes with the territory of being able to distinguish trace amounts of pollutants in water or air without much trying. "Oh! You're mistaken, I can't use wands at all. If I have any skill like big E enchantress or Julio or Constantine, that's entirely news to me. They do the real thing." A bit of a pained smile still, though Blade isn't poking too hard at the wound. "They do magic. I am more what happens when magic gets mired with the living or something more like that. It's a bit more complicated and when people starting getting technical, my head hurts."

Nietzsche is familiar barely, but the rest of it sails over her head. Wrong lad to be asking her that and expecting much of a reaction. Though she waves her hand again, playful. "I like it when they get exciting or fussy. Most of the time. Sometimes it's right awful, and quite terrible. Demons get like that, they breathe nothing but hate. The invisible one I couldn't even see was absolutely awful like that. Knowing something with such glee and malevolence floated around us, hurting another, and having not a lick I could do because the hate was so thick. Practically stuck me there, and in that case... trust me, I'd have loved to swing a fist or sword or shot something. But I couldn't. Sounds mad even talking about it here, except you can believe there are ghostlike demons that no one sees except in blood, yeah?"

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade takes a moment to think on how best to answer.  He sounds thoughtful as he responds, as if he's still sorting out idea while he ponders.  "Circumstances have forced me to be more open-minded.  At this point I think it's safest to say that I believe in believing.  Other than that, I take it one monster at a time."

It's a safe attitude, if nothing else.  You don't live to be a hundred without learning to go with the flow when the occasion demands.  

"I didn't mean it literally, but I'll admit, it's nice to hear that someone doesn't do the..."  he makes the poofy-firework gesture that's become his all-purpose symbol for anything that's visibly and tangibly magical.  "All that Capital E stuff. I was starting to feel like the only one."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I suspect if you asked, you'd find someone out there who says anyone can learn sparkle-poofing from their fingers." Meggan opens her palm and a small whirlwind forms, a dervish of loosely spinning air coaxed to dance back and forth. Other than making her sunny hair sway around, the effect might be considered quite minimal.

"Everyone's gifts are worth celebrating. They can all be a bit different. When it comes to the green lady, I see how eyes turn where she goes. I imagine you make a gun do things that seem right magical or else you'd not really call yourself by the title you do, right?" Her fingers close and poof, the air swirls away back to be circulated by the tired HVAC system. Little interruptions that involve tugging on things. "Like I said, everyone's quite a bit different. You want me to draw a circle, I might be able to do it. Start up some conjuring or fancy fireworks like them, that's another matter. But all that said, I bet they can't fly anywhere as quick as I do. They might long for that more than anything, and no need to be jealous or feeling left out. I'll take you up whenever you like."

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade stops playing with his improvised spotlight and polishes off the last of his whisky.  Now empty, his glass hovers in the air for a moment on its way back to the tabletop.  "Up?  As in 'up there'?" 

Slowly, minutely, he raises a finger to point skyward without actually moving his hand.  "As in all the way up there?" 

It's not that flying is a concept that confuses him.  He's seen it done before.  The idea of passengers on those flights is the one that seems to be making him curious. 

"Heh.  That'd be some trick.  My magic, that's the magic of muscle memory.  As much time as I've spent practicing, I'd better be good at it."  Amused self-deprecation isn't a foreign concept for him either.  Inspired by the sight of the tiny dust devil, Blade pulls a slim-bladed knife from his sleeve and rolls it across the backs of his knuckles, somehow managing not to slice himself open as the blade weaves between his fingers.  "They can keep the sparkle-poofing, I'll stick to doing things the old fashioned way."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"If you're flying down there, it's called tunnelling or swimming no matter what they believe." Meggan sips the rest of the liquor from her cup and sets that aside on the little table. With any luck someone comes by to swish it away or else she can do it for them. No stranger to washing up dishes, really.

Blade's questions leave her quiet for a moment, and she admires the knife dancing for longer than she ought to. At least no applause rewards him, but she tips forward. "Oh, that's very good. Look at how quick you are! I'd be afraid of being cut."

Her fingers tighten over her knees as she straightens up, tipping back, smoothly reclining into an upright posture. "And yes, I mean up there. High as you want to go, though I usually give up around the ionosphere unless utterly captivated by the stars. Doing that in an aurora is really something else I should point out, but probably not so wise. Anyway, hit me up about going airborne if you need it. You'll want goggles instead of your glasses, though."

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Goggles, you say?  Intriguing..." the Daywalker mutters as he imagines what it must look and feel like to fly that high.  "Very intriguing.  I'll take you up on that someday." 

The attention paid to his little party trick doesn't go unnoticed.  Now he does smile, which is a noteworthy experience for him.  It feels good, but also strange.  Someone's used to the taste of sour grapes. 

With a flick of the wrist and a fingersnap, Blade makes the silver stiletto disappear back up his sleeve.  There's a quick glance at their surroundings, then a small snort of laughter.  "If this place wasn't so cosmopolitan, I'd show you some real tricks.  We'll have to save those for when we need them, though."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Boastful Meggan isn't. She just truly adores the freedom of the wind. "Protection for your eyes when the speed gets too high. Figure you go fast as a motorcycle, you need to wear protection to make sure nothing gets in there and harms you. I have less of a problem but I wouldn't want to assume that you were uninjured. No point in wearing a hat, either. While I like getting up to a good clip, you might not be very happy flying at four hundred clicks or more. Like being on the bullet train, stuck to the front."

Her grin becomes quite a bit brighter, unabashedly delighted. Blade gets that stiletto vanishing act down cold, and she claps her hands together for good measure. "Excellent, that! See, you have all the excellent skills."

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade glances over at Meggan and arches a brow.  When it becomes apparent that it's a genuine compliment, he ducks his head for a half-instant.  "You're too kind.  Now *that's* something that anybody can learn to do."

"You make it sound very exciting. Flying. I've never flown before," he admits after a few seconds of silence.  "On a plane, I mean.  I even took a boat when I was moving here.  No travel documents, at least not ones that'd do me any good."  He makes a grand show of helplessness and dubiety. "Surprisingly enough, nobody's impressed by a passport that says I'm ninety-eight years old. Plus, my credit is somewhere between dodgy and nonexistent."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The grin widens still and she falls back into the seat. Her leg uncrosses and she flips position, more comfortable in her settled state. "I try. Enough meanness in this world, no reason not to add. Flying /is/ fun, though. And, wait, you've never flown on a plane?"

Cue her looking surprised. "I suppose it beats how I ended up here, but still." Lips rounded in thought, she bites her cheek. "Are you really ninety-eight? And how do you get around if you've no real digital presence? I sort of fall into the same. Working class heroes, here. If we're sort of working class, I mean. I'm flat broke and live in a lighthouse."

Eric Brooks has posed:
"I live in an old meat packing plant," Blade commiserates.  If a person's face could shrug, that's the expression he's wearing right now.  "And no matter how many bad guys have a Rolex I can swipe, it's never quite enough. Silver is expensive." 

That's not an answer to Meggan's question, though.  "I turn ninety-nine in October.  I'm half suckhead, so I age, but it happens slowly.  I'm eagerly anticipating my first grey hair in another hundred years or so."

It's a thorough glossing-over that might better explain why he hates vampires so much.  Or it might just be confusing.  There's more facial shrugging, which isn't likely to clarify his thoughts on the situation.  "Everybody comes from somewhere, right?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Maybe a reason we get along. Not so special and high up that we lost contact with the people around us?" Meg smiles wide and then anchors her elbow on the seat, realigning to get more comfortable again. "Happy birthday come October. You age well. One of the benefits, I suppose. I'm not even going to guess how you can be half when the other half is undead. Because magic."

Good enough reason for them and a neat sweeping motion under the rug in case Blade wants to keep his secrets. Not everyone is so open as she is. "This place is good, though. They sometimes serve up a proper roast or a prime rib. Not always up to eating meat, but when I am, mmm. Melt off the bone. Not the sort of thing I ever got to eat, growing up, since I came from the Lake Country way up near the borders."

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade is starting to relax around this young woman.  Enough that he chuckles, anyway.  "Sounds good. I don't eat, though.  I can, but I don't have to.  It takes some of the fun out of things when you don't get hungry, but you've got to love an expat bar whether you're drinking or dining."

He toys with his empty glass, but it's the habit of someone who naturally fidgets when they're otherwise being still.  "You're from the Lakes?  How posh.  Soho." He indicates himself with a thumb.  "The real one, not the trendy, shitty SoHo they have here." 

It's not always obvious that he's an expat, himself.  His accent exists, but it's vague and indeterminate. He doesn't use the slang, he doesn't drink the tea. At a proverbial glance, he could be from anywhere, up to and including here.  "Do you miss it?" he asks. 

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Do you ever eat for the pleasure of it?" It's more of a quiet, curious question there. "Tell me to sod off if you rather not talk about it, since that's purely natural not to wish to disclose."

The glass is empty and she herself is content, drinking up the moods around her and, as an empath, that's just as nourishing as blood can be to a vampire. In some ways, at least. The physical demands will out as they must. "Soho's a magical spot. Quite a bit different now being all glossed up. And don't you think Lake Windermere or anything fancy like that; we lived rural, villages, not even a proper market anywhere near by unless you walked. And walked. More sheep and wild hills than not, though the tourists are even getting up there. Reason why I started campaigning, got sick of finding their trash all over and that they had no care for the landscape. Walked or drove their Landrovers wherever they pleased." Not a jobt of respect, that's that, and now she's the icon of the green movement in half of the English speaking world.

The world's a funny place, and she can almost fade in and out, spinning through the lift and fall of Blade's words. Those pauses are companionable. "Mmm? Sometimes. I felt more at home there than here, no disrespect to the Big Apple or the great dark of Gotham. Once, aye, it would've been awful to be away. But things change a bit. I miss parts of it. Finding black currant anything, for one. But it's changed so much. The Britain I was born into was already waning from something to what it is now. And now.. so many people forget they are part of a bigger place but they want to be the Empire of old. One that called the shots and had an outsized influence, they've all but sold themselves sometimes to do it. I get that it's hard not to loom so large as you did. Plenty of people, though, they still struggle to get by and got the world chopped out from under them. I wonder if the places I'd been are still the same. Do they change or did I?"

Eric Brooks has posed:
"I don't eat for the enjoyment, no.  Nothing against food, I just don't really do things for fun."  Blade takes a moment to consider that statement, then amends it.  "I like playing the trumpet.  And watching NYPD Blue reruns."

That covers his two hobbies.  It sounds strange when he says it out loud, even to himself.  "There's always so much to do, you know?  Not enough hours in the day for all the killin' and the dyin'."

'The killin' and the dyin is a phrase he uses to describe the circle of life/death that encompasses himself, vampires, and humanity as a whole in approximately that order. "I have hobbies," he says, mock-defensively. "...knife-related hobbies? Anyway, sometimes I think I miss it, sometimes I think I don't. It's been a long time since I've been home, I bet it's changed a lot." 

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"You have no /fun/?" Meggan practically hovers out of the seat, staring at this poor man. "You have to have some idea of fun. Life cannot be only a single-minded pursuit, else what's the point?" John Constantine, what have you done?

Considering the fae nature of the girl, she smiles. "Trumpet is good. Jazz, something else? I don't know many other musical styles for a trumpet. You could play Taps, I suppose, over the fallen."

Blade, playing Taps for the dead vampires. That is just wrong. Which is clearly why she said it.

"You want to go home, you let me know. I should be able to figure out a way to fly you there in around two or three hours, and it wouldn't hurt you so much. If you heal fast, that's another business altogether," she adds. "So you can add flying to your hobbies. Or see the Eye in person, or tell me how stinking and awful the Thames was back in the day. Or play Knifey Spoony in a pub in Southwark."

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Oooh," Blade winces dramatically.  "Just because I don't look old, that doesn't mean I can't feel old.  You wound me, Lakes.  And don't make fun of knifey-spoony, that's a proper gentleman's game."

Straight face.  Keep a straight face.  Now hold it.  There we go.  "I like jazz," he continues.  "But if you stay a wiseass, the only person I'll be playing Taps for is you.  You'll be seeing how fast I heal and how nasty the Thames is in a very personal way."

Amiable threats are a part of being friends with Blade.  He'll refer to violence with the same blase attitude that most people have when speaking about pancakes.  Still, he sneaks in a wink that's mostly hidden behind his glasses before returning to normal-ish topics.  "I've been trying the trombone, too.  I met Tommy Dorsey once.  The Sentimental Gentleman himself, man, that guy could play.  Trombone is hard, though.  It's all--" he holds both hands out and pantomimes the brass instrument's slide.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I want to see you play it next time. Do you have a phone? Do call me up if so. I insist." Meggan's mischief can arise in a moment, and often has the force of a summer storm when it shows up. Hold that straight face. Hold it...

Forget she can sense it, with that whimsical wink given. "I wouldn't know a wiseass from any other kind. Though try not to think too hard on the image of a donkey or else you'll be tossed out for cavorting with livestock." Just an innocent grin there, totally helpful. "Heehaw."

That's all that one needs to say, considering there's naught much else to do. "Tommy Dorsey is lovely. I prefer a bit more in line with northern soul, myself, but hard not to given the closest big towns where I grew up. Edinburgh and Glasgow aren't much for /that/ kind of music, but Newcastle, Liverpool, another story. Lot going on with those instruments. Usually I just dance."

Eric Brooks has posed:
"You."  Improvised sign language is fun.  Blade's faux-trombone disappears, replaced by him strangling thin air.  "Just.  You."

He's amused, though. He wasn't aware he had that setting. It's a fun feeling.  "No, no.  I don't dance.  My experience is, shall we say, outdated?  And socializing is so... social."

There's another dismissive wave, which is often his response to things that are relatively normal.  "Make you a deal.  You take me for a spin," he points toward the ceiling.  "And I'll play you a song."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
She puts her hands to her lips and mimes a trumpet, fingers flicking over invisible keys. "The sun never looked on aught so grand, save Olympus, and me."

The glorious shrine to amusement, she breaks into laughter. "You never dance? I shall have to dance for everyone then. Not nearly enough let themselves go happily, do they? That's too bad."

Down with the horn, back up with the calm, content chuckle. "Sounds fair. For a dance or a flight, you will play music with me," she says in merry grace, but there's a very different seriousness behind it.

But so it is with the fae, and the Tuatha themselves especially.

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Deal."  Blade laughs as well, and shakes his head.  "You're a weird one, kiddo.  I like that about you."

He tilts his head to the side, looking for all the world like a curious dog that's heard a sound it can't quite identify.  "Wait, play *with* you?  You play, too?  Or sing?  It's been a long time since I dueted. That sounds like fun."  His mouth screws up for a moment, the way someone else's might when saying things like 'taking out the trash' or 'cleaning the cat box'.  He's going to have to get used to the idea of recreation now that he Knows People.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Takes one to know one," Meggan replies. She doesn't worry at that. "I can try to sing. Been an age and it's strange to do. Went places where making that kind of sound wasn't allowed much, or accepted. At times, I found it easier to be quiet."

She doesn't quite explain it. "It's more getting into the groove, in playing with you. I feel the music, mm? You play and it turns pretty colours and inspires good vibes. That's all."

Eric Brooks has posed:
Now both of Blade's eyebrows raise as he considers this new string of statements.  "Sure, that makes perfect sense," he replies.  There's nothing mocking about it, though.  He's rapidly learning that the world is a little larger and more complex than he used to think it was.

"What have you got planned?  Other than day drinking, that is?"  Still not mocking.  After all, he's the one who came here for a couple fingers of scotch.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
She shakes her head. "I'm not sure. Classwork is done, no meeting until tomorrow. Unless something drops out of the sky or rises from the sea, I think it's quite open. What did you have in mind?" Meggan asks that easily as she runs a finger along the edge of the chair and shifts again, searching for that fulcrum point to get comfortable around.

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Me?  Nothing.  Unless there's a pending disaster, my schedule is usually pretty open."  Blade scootches his glass back and forth across the tabletop, which makes a not altogether pleasant grating sound. After a moment he realizes how much noise he's making and puts a stop to the sliding.  "I'll probably do some range work, I've got a new Glock I need to break in.  Maybe melt down some silverware, make some bullets and stakes.  No rest for the wicked, you know how it is."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"How exactly does one get in touch with you about pending disasters? Do I leave word here? Write it? Call on the wind to dial you up? The latter's kind of a pain but it could be done, supposing you ask really nicely." Meggan is utterly teasing on that, since the matter of range work and fashioning silver is... well, a tad alien. "Smithing silver at this time of year is supposed to be lucky. Flame of Brigid and all, considering the time of year. That /does/ sound rather fancy, though."

The blonde fae flashes a grin. "Aren't I boring? Time to get more fun."

Eric Brooks has posed:
'Calling on the wind' earns an immediate return of Blade's full attention.  When he realizes he's being teased, he lets out a snort of laughter.  "Even I have a phone.  It's a prepay, but it gets the job done.  Wiseass." 

He digs it out of his coat pocket and pushes it across the table to Meggan.  It's nice for a prepaid phone, or it used to be.  It has a cracked screen and boxed corners from too much rough handling, but once upon a time it was a low-end smartphone design.  "Go ahead.  We can trade numbers and be bestest friends foreverest. You want fun? I bet you'll think vampires are merry as hell."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Wiseass indeed.

Except he's seen the whirlwind. Meggan claims to have crossed from the Mariana Trench to a beach in New York in hours, not days. So take that as he will.

"Good stuff. Let me poke in something. Vampires aren't really merry, they tend to be tormented or miserable, or pompous asses really. Right?" She has her own phone forgotten on the chair arm, so it's exchanged. It takes very little time to get her numbers in as a contact, complete with friendly water drops.

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade snags the fingertip of a glove between his teeth and tugs it off so he can plug his number into Meggan's phone, then return the device to her. 

When he realizes that he still has one end of a leather garment in his mouth, he spits it out onto the table with an audible 'TOOH'.  "Hrm," he considers Ariah.  "I know one who's pretty nice.  You know, for a suckhead.  She's a friend, but she's more Frenchy-floaty-goth than merrymaker."