Köln, Germany, 4 Jan. 1902
Dec. 20th, 2011 07:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bitten_notshyDebarking in Köln was by means of a railed gangplank rather than a stair, and as soon as Jack Priest set one bull's-blood-colored boot upon it, he breathed a soft and heartfelt sigh. Germany. The continent. Civilization.
He strode down, all swinging arms and stomping boots, and paused at the bottom when he realized Phoebe and "John" -- whom he must stop thinking of as Sebastien, especially in moments of affection and exasperation -- were not on his heels. All of them were travelling under the name Nast, which Jack found reprehensibly amusing. He supposed he passed very well for Phoebe's son -- she was slight and blond as well, though paler than he -- but the recently-minted John Nast was medium-tall and dark, almost swarthy.
When Jack turned, he saw Sebastien standing at the top of the gangplank, leaning on a cane and his "wife's" arm, pretending to breathe heavily while the erstwhile Mrs. Nast juggled him and a basket full of irascible orange cat.
A virtuoso performance, but Jack really wished they could just hurry and set aside the charade.
"Mother, oh mother, let me help with your bag," he called, and started up the plank again while "John" -- no, John, dammit -- arched an eyebrow and Phoebe laughed helplessly. A Gallic-nosed fellow, slight with silver-shot dark curls and dark eyes, brushed rudely past them just as Jack regained the top of the plank. He reeked of vetiver and musk; Jack's nose wrinkled as he passed, and he half-smiled at himself to realize how accustomed he'd become to the Puritan cleanliness of the 21st century, and the world’s new aversion to heavy perfumes.
But then he had Phoebe's bag, and was shepherding her and Sebastien across the broad open lawn of the landing field, under a bright winter moon augmented by electric floodlights, their breath steaming around them.
Except for Sebastien, of course, who -- even though he remembered to feign the rise and fall of his chest -- had no warmth or moisture on his breath to frost in the air.
"I hate winter," he stage-whispered.
Jack reached up and straightened the wing of the wampyr's dux collar. And then none of them spoke again until they were within the air-field terminal and warm beside the tracks that would soon bring an electric tram.
They would stay in Germany only for a few days. Long enough for Jack to ensure their Paris contacts were valid, and for Sebastien to make certain inquiries, ask certain questions, and learn what the blood knew about Armand Renault, the prime minister of France.
In the course of a long unlife, borders might cross one almost as often as one crossed borders. It paid to understand the politics, and for all their prickles the blood had long ago learned the value of shared information.
Sooner or later, in Jack's experience, a wampyr found out everything.
[OOC: NFB, NFI, lightly edited from New Amsterdam. Part of this.]
He strode down, all swinging arms and stomping boots, and paused at the bottom when he realized Phoebe and "John" -- whom he must stop thinking of as Sebastien, especially in moments of affection and exasperation -- were not on his heels. All of them were travelling under the name Nast, which Jack found reprehensibly amusing. He supposed he passed very well for Phoebe's son -- she was slight and blond as well, though paler than he -- but the recently-minted John Nast was medium-tall and dark, almost swarthy.
When Jack turned, he saw Sebastien standing at the top of the gangplank, leaning on a cane and his "wife's" arm, pretending to breathe heavily while the erstwhile Mrs. Nast juggled him and a basket full of irascible orange cat.
A virtuoso performance, but Jack really wished they could just hurry and set aside the charade.
"Mother, oh mother, let me help with your bag," he called, and started up the plank again while "John" -- no, John, dammit -- arched an eyebrow and Phoebe laughed helplessly. A Gallic-nosed fellow, slight with silver-shot dark curls and dark eyes, brushed rudely past them just as Jack regained the top of the plank. He reeked of vetiver and musk; Jack's nose wrinkled as he passed, and he half-smiled at himself to realize how accustomed he'd become to the Puritan cleanliness of the 21st century, and the world’s new aversion to heavy perfumes.
But then he had Phoebe's bag, and was shepherding her and Sebastien across the broad open lawn of the landing field, under a bright winter moon augmented by electric floodlights, their breath steaming around them.
Except for Sebastien, of course, who -- even though he remembered to feign the rise and fall of his chest -- had no warmth or moisture on his breath to frost in the air.
"I hate winter," he stage-whispered.
Jack reached up and straightened the wing of the wampyr's dux collar. And then none of them spoke again until they were within the air-field terminal and warm beside the tracks that would soon bring an electric tram.
They would stay in Germany only for a few days. Long enough for Jack to ensure their Paris contacts were valid, and for Sebastien to make certain inquiries, ask certain questions, and learn what the blood knew about Armand Renault, the prime minister of France.
In the course of a long unlife, borders might cross one almost as often as one crossed borders. It paid to understand the politics, and for all their prickles the blood had long ago learned the value of shared information.
Sooner or later, in Jack's experience, a wampyr found out everything.
[OOC: NFB, NFI, lightly edited from New Amsterdam. Part of this.]
