evilbeej | Quicklog: Deals with the Devil (Reply)

====== ( Rooftop Garden -- Preiswerte Raume -- Roosevelt Square ) =============

The top of the building's been made into a usable space, a substitute for the non-existent yard. It's broad and open, with a wall around it chest high. Most of the wall has planters lined up against it, and the majority of these are filled with assiduously tended rosebushes. The scent of the roses, red, white, pink, and purple, fill the air on warm evenings. A few are filled with what look to be herbs of varying kinds, adding a sharper, greener scent to the lushness of the roses.

There's a little awning pavilion set up not far from the door to the stairs down, under which are arranged a patio table and its matching chairs, and a couple of chaises. There's also a fountain set into the corner of the roof by it, made of blue and white Moroccan tile mosaic.

At the far end of the roof from the door that leads downstairs is a newly built little structure: a mews. Hanging by its door is a neatly hand-lettered sign that declares the resident is a peregrine falcon named Aya, and that the landlord is happy to introduce her.....but tampering without permission is likely to result in A. the loss of fingers and B. instant eviction.

At night, it's not really dark - too much glow from the lights of the rest of the city, not to mention a handful of little solar lanterns scattered around. But it's still breezy and pleasant.

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It's a beautiful, breezy warm night in the twilight of summer, and all the stars are out -- what's visible with the hazy glow from the city, anyroad -- and the traffic's quieted down to the occasional car passing in the square below. Karl's roof is a fragrant garden, private from the street, secluded and comfortable, tasting of the quiet stately class that the old gentry can enjoy like few others.

There's a man up there, black haired and fair-skinned and dressed in breezily light white summer linens, no tie, jacket draped over the back of one of the patio chairs and sandals kicked underneath it; he's leaning on the rooftop's wall watching the cityscape. He's got a tumbler of vodka in one hand and he looks for all the world like he should also be smoking a cigarette, but he's not.

A white bat perches, upside-down as bats will, on the arm of a hanging pot of Rosemary, chittering at itself as it fluffs its wings together, wrapping them closed like a great cape. Beady black eyes stare out at Czcibor; they know who he is, of course, but not why he is here. All of this, besides the squeaks that represent the little fluffy bat's external thought process, is in batlike silence.

There's a puff of smoke, it's true; very dramatic. But no accompanying noise like one might expect. The smoke itself seems to steam off of the bat thinly, then thickly, as if the bat were itself evaporating. It takes the shape of a woman, and when it coalesces, there stands Elsa.

"Do you always drink over precipices, or only my descendent's?" she asks, approaching with heeled footsteps.

Rolling lazily against the wall to turn and face Elsa, Czcibor's grin is crooked. He lifts the glass in salute, finishes it off, and then moves away from the wall to set the thing down on the patio table under the unnecessary sun pavilion. "I wouldn't say always," he says in a mild voice, "but also not exclusive to your descendent's precipice."

His motions are all relaxed, not even the schooled effort sort of relaxed, but -really- relaxed. He's not afraid, or worried; he's leagues more sure of himself than he was the last time the two of them spoke. Really spoke, not Elsa catching him making out with Karl. As he's turning again, he's rolling up his shirtsleeves; his shirt's a bit wrinkled, untucked from his white trousers, the top two buttons undone. "I *had* been meaning to catch you, though-- I wanted to assure you that I'm bound to secrecy in the agreement I made with Karl, just as thoroughly as he is. I can't talk about you or yours with anyone but the two of you."

Here's where his fair face takes on a rueful expression, and his body stills, as motionless as a statue. "And there's my difficulty. I have reason to believe I was attacked by someone like you, and I was wondering if I could make some sort of agreement with -you-, maybe to prevent that sort of thing from happening again. Since I can't talk about it with anyone else, and all."

"You were attacked by a five foot German girl?" Elsa asks, coolly raising a brow at Czcibor and tilting her head to emphasize it. Of course she's just playing with him; that is how Elsa operates. "And what would you like me to do to protect you from five foot German brunettes? Talk to the five foot German brunette club? It's a rather incestuous organization, and talking hardly works half the time."

She's not wearing the peacoat or the hat tonight, despite what her desc says! So instead, she just stalks in a little circle around Czcibor, maintaining distance but pacing nonetheless. It's a patient walk, like a lioness'. Her heels sound off on the ground, the blue glow of the lanterns underfoot casting eerie shadows in the folds of her dress.

The stillness continues as though Czci's forgotten to move; the Pole's about as lively as a gargoyle perched on a cornice, but his face has gone wry indeed. "I was. At least, I *think* it was a five foot German girl. Could have been a five foot Austrian girl, which is actually more likely, considering where we are," he says, smiling and briefly looking down at his bare feet on the chilly rooftop. He lets his hands drop from where they'd paused after he finished rolling up his second sleeve, and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. "But that's not at *all* what I meant, Pfalzgrafin. Shall I elucidate?"

As finally remembering he's supposed to be moving, the faerie rocks back on his heels, then resettles, his face following Elsa's only when she's in view; he gives her a smile that's bright and secretive and unspoilt. "I would like to make an alliance with you. Terms negotiable, of course."

"I haven't been Pfalzgrafin of anything; I never inherited the title," Elsa replies without any sense of remorse, eyes half-lidded watching Czcibor. She stops, then, and turns to face him. "An alliance? Well, you have my ear; you've never done me too wrong a turn, so far. Everyone does, eventually, but it's just a matter of degrees. Do you want to sit?" she asks, extending an upward-palmed hand toward one of the sets of classy patio furniture Karl's got set out on his roof.

Spreading his hands, Czcibor looks apologetic, but only faintly so. "/Do/ tell me what you'd like me to call you, then; my memory's not perfect." He moves to sit in the chair he'd draped his jacket over, and it's loose and easy; elbows on knees, he's leaned forward with his hands propping up his chin, watching her. "I don't intend to do you wrong. This, if done right, should cement that. I won't get in your way, I won't try and take from you what you've laid claim to, I'd like to put myself on your list of people you can call on if you're hurt, and I'll do my best to steer my people away from you and Karl. I'd like the same in return." His blue eyes are very bright, fixed on Elsa; his tone is even and mild, almost-- earnest.

"Tell me more about this attack, first," says Elsa, taking a seat across from the Pole, crossing her legs at the knee after scootching in. "Before we can be allies, I should know your enemies." It's a bit callous; like an insurance company making sure someone's not sick before they allow them to sign up. But, she's a vampire, and old, and despite her reputation and disposition sometimes these things leak through.

Not callous -- not to the Prince of Spring. Only cautious, and a question to be lauded: the Pole's face lights in approbation, he'd forgotten. "I'll tell you what I can," he allows. "I didn't see much. Only I'm fairly certain it was a girl, blue-eyed and short. She hit me like a freight train and shoved me up against a wall, and held my face away. I'm strong, Frau von Steiger. But she was stronger. And then I don't remember much of anything until I started picking myself up to go home-- only that the only thing that felt quite like that was when you bit me."

"There's one Kindred in the city who prides herself on her ice-blue eyes. I think I know who you're talking about. She has a strange haircut, cut short on the crown but left long around the edges. Like some of those gangs," says Elsa. You know, those gangs. "I mean, it's unique enough as to be instant identification." She pauses, then, something growling quiet enough and yet ferally enough that surely it isn't her. Perhaps a raccoon or something in the garden. Her face hasn't changed, after all.

"She is of little consequence. I can't promise protection for you, of course, but I can promise to put word out that I would be sore with anyone who did attack you. I could even promise that I would help you avenge yourself on them, after the fact, and that if I were present I would help you, and that if you called me, needing help, I would come if I could. So what is this, sir? An alliance of vengeance for the deed, or for protection from further... indignities? Perhaps both?"

Something clicks behind the man's eyes. "I'd seen her the previous night, with someone else-- they'd tried to convince me to get in their car." A beat; Czcibor looks somewhat incredulous. "/Honestly/. I'm surprised they didn't offer me candy. I suppose she was determined--" He shakes his head, then, sitting up and holding his hands out, open. "Vengeance isn't my style. All I'd ask for is that word being put out-- and help if you -should- be present would be much appreciated." The hands drop to the armrests of his patio chair, and he leans back, stretching his legs out. "So, a protective alliance: me from your people, you from mine, and promised consequences should our respective wills be crossed. And also an alliance of mutual aid if circumstances allow."

He's silent for a second, and then Czcibor lifts a hand, elbow still propped on the arm of the chair, and he doesn't *quite* meet Elsa's eyes; is that a flush of embarrassment in his face? It's hard to tell in the poor light. "And I will point out that the aforementioned indignities *aren't*, if I'm /asked/ first."

Elsa smiles at that last bit, though not broadly. "I just like the word," she says, waving it off. But the look she offers into Czcibor's eyes -- though he's not looking at hers -- is just a little bit hungry; and not necessarily for blood.

Elsa is a cougar.

"So," says she, after a moment of that, her feral shrewdness returning to her, "You'll protect me from your people, and I'll protect you from mine. And what is it, exactly, that protects /them/ from /me/?"

-There's- the unsettled look, finally. Czcibor shifts in his seat. "Nothing," he says after a second, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. Once he looked at Elsa's eyes again and /caught/ that look, he -- decided to stop looking, quite, for a moment. So he's sort of covering his imbalance by squinting over Elsa's shoulder. Just for that moment. "Nothing. If they piss you off, on their own heads be it. Likewise, if any of your people piss me off."

Then he -does- look at her, sudden and sharply aware, catching a loophole. "On the other hand, courtesy to me and our alliance should protect them from -unbidden- attacks by you, which also figures into my view of your people. I shouldn't like to complicate yout political life unduly, and I would hope that the same is true in reverse."

"And you consider gathering substenance an attack. What if I can't tell one of your people is one of your people? Will you give them a sign to wear, to know not to be fed on?" asks Elsa. How biblical. She settles back in her chair, one hand out as if it should have a flute of wine or blood in it. "So a trade, then. Service for service. And I presume the secrecy extends to me as well; I shouldn't talk about yours, no you of mine. But you've already promised that to Karl. And all we have is our word, one would think. Except I know better. Because of last time."

"I didn't," Czcibor points out reasonably, "say that -this- time, did I? What I consider an attack is getting mugged in an alley for blood, winding up with bruises and having to replace another suit. Or setting a hunt on someone. Or beating them up for lunch money. Or otherwise injuring them beyond what you need to survive. I haven't heard any complaints from any of my people, so I imagine that when you do what you do, you make it a point to do it discreetly." Then he spreads his hands again, grinning. "I'm not nearly as worried about you running your mouth off about me and mine as I was about Karl. If you'd like to promise that, I'll accept it, but it's not a dealbreaker." He delicately fails to comment upon the binding of the agreement from last time.

"Okay," says Elsa, nodding slowly. She shrugs, suddenly, and says, "Why not? Let's do it. Do I have to sign a paper or something? Is there anything else I should know about this deal? You scratch my back, and I scratch yours. Sometimes vampires will want to attack you. I'll try to stop them, to the best of my ability, using my social contacts and my physical prowess-- but I can't be there all the time. And sometimes Elves will want to attack me. That would also be bad, and you should make them not do that."

"...oh moj boze," says Czcibor, covering his face with one hand, "elves. We're not elves. 'Changelings' is probably the closest to accurate I've heard Karl use. And I'll do my damndest to stop them from attacking you, yes." He takes a breath in, rubs at the side of his nose, drops his hand again. "More -- again, we can have help in these endeavours. A boost to that prowess, maybe. Sound good?"

"What do you mean, 'we can have a boost to that prowess'?" asks Elsa, tilting her head. "From where? Is there a third party I'm not aware of in all of this, Herr Kowal?"

There's a laugh from the faerie, one that's -- maybe strangely -- almost affectionate. "Not at all. If you'll recall the last agreement we made, I granted you the stamina in fighting it takes to keep going even if you've been battered nearly senseless. I could do that again."

"Yeah, that stopped working right before I got tortured. It kind of felt like abandonment," Elsa says, looking to the side and scratching her neck. The silence gets a little uneasy, there, for it. "So, uh. Yeah. What if you made me good at something like shooting guns? Or going faster. You know, whoever starts a fight usually finishes it."

"I'm sorry," Czci says softly, leaning forward a bit again, to one side-- propping his chin on one fist. "For what it's worth. I didn't pull it out from under you -- the agreement was for only a season. We can make this one longer, easier to remember when it's time to renew it. A year and a day? And yes, I could do that."

"Okay, then," says the girl, turning her head to face Czcibor again, though she's still leaned way back in her chair, her curls swaying with the motion. "That seems reasonable. I accept."

"--" About to agree as well, Czci pauses, looks rueful. "And if the agreement's broken, the guilty party's luck will take a decided turn for the devilishly poor. Just, of course, because this is a promise enforced by more than our words." If Elsa agrees to that, as well, then her words bring on the feeling from last time: an uninvited and impossible fluttering of the heart, the settling of a binding agreement weighted on the soul, the notice of a Thing, giant and as old as the world, taking the agreement to list for reckoning.